


In the Daylight Again

by duplicity



Series: In the Daylight Again [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fluff, Harry Potter is a Sweetheart, Isolation, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV Tom Riddle, Slow Romance, Time Travel Fix-It, i did not set out for this to parallel quarantine yet here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22251433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: Harry Potter travels back in time on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix to retrieve a thirteen-year-old Tom Riddle.When they arrive in the future, Harry and Tom must wait for an indeterminate period under sealed wards as the timeline rights itself in Tom's absence.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: In the Daylight Again [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876120
Comments: 602
Kudos: 1192





	1. Zero

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the song 'salt and the sea' by the lumineers.
> 
> for my more regular readers, i am really sorry for starting another wip, oops. this one shouldn't be that long, i don't think. once i finally finish 'til death do us part', this will probably be finished faster because it's less draining to write, but i guess don't expect updates right away :sweats nervously:
> 
> * * *
> 
> spotify playlist link for this story: [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0cOrkYSOKUF8zUlIK4UfHF?si=L_NvuWyOR4q7phmx7un9-Q)
> 
> soundtrack in order:  
>  **Salt And The Sea** by The Lumineers  
>  **Breathe Deep** by Sleeping At Last  
>  **Rivers and Roads** by The Head and the Heart  
>  **Next To Me** by Imagine Dragons  
>  **As the World Caves In** by Matt Maltese  
>  **I Am Easy To Find** by The National  
>  **Just Like A River Does** by Birdy  
>  **No One's Gonna Love You** by Band of Horses  
>  **Call It Dreaming** by Iron & Wine  
>  **White Blank Page** by Mumford & Sons  
>  **Don't Take The Money** by Bleachers ft. Lorde  
>  **Daylight** by Taylor Swift

The green-eyed, dark-haired boy who had shown up at Wool’s Orphanage is named Harry Potter.

Potter had shown up with articles and books and many, many other things, all of which he had deposited quietly upon Tom’s desk. He’d not said much, only asked Tom to read through the materials he’d brought with him.

And so Tom had done so, though his suspicion had only grown with each passing moment. The last time another wizard had been to Wool’s, it had been Albus Dumbledore, who Tom did not like one bit.

But the things Harry Potter had brought were by far more shocking than learning he was a wizard, because Harry Potter was from the year 1995, which was over fifty years in the future.

“Is this convincing enough?”

Tom looks up from the copy of the Daily Prophet he has in his hands. While a great many things can be accomplished with magic, the sheer amount of content Tom now has strewn across his desk is hard to deny. Fake articles, perhaps. But there are entire books on subjects that Tom has never heard of, let alone imagined. There are wizarding photographs of things and places and people that he has never seen. There are books upon books on the subject of the war—the war Tom is living in: World War II.

“Let’s say it is,” Tom says, looking back over at Potter. “Why are you here?”

Potter shifts his weight to his other foot, his eyes darting over to the window. “I’m part of a group that’s called the Order of the Phoenix. I’ve been sent back in time to bring you to the future.”

Tom folds the Prophet up neatly, tossing it back onto the desk. “And why would that be?” he asks. Though he keeps his gaze fixed on the desk, he watches for Potter’s reaction out of the corner of his eye.

“Well,” Potter says awkwardly. “I’m here to save you. In my world—I mean, in the future—Tom Riddle died in the war, in one of the London bombings.”

Tom feels his insides contract, constrict, shrivel right up into nearly nothing. He tells himself that there is no possible way for Potter to know his worst fears, for Potter to know that death is what he abhors and wishes to escape above all else.

“I die,” he repeats, just to be sure.

Potter winces, then nods.

“And you’ve come to save me?” Tom asks, derisive. “Because I find it hard to believe your Order of the Phoenix would send a mere student back in time fifty years to save just anyone.”

“You’re not just a student,” Potter says in a rush, taking a step forward. “You’re—you know, you’re the best student at Hogwarts, and everyone likes you. They expect great things from you.”

Potter seems to mean what he says, as far as Tom can tell. He pivots to face Potter completely, allowing hesitation to flicker across his face. “Time isn’t supposed to be meddled with,” Tom says. He doesn’t trust Potter enough just yet.

“It’s different,” Potter says. Then he stops, pausing, his hand moving to push his glasses up his nose. “We have a way to keep you in the future, but only if you agree to come with me.”

Now this sounds more like the kind of trick Tom has been expecting. “What kind of way would that be?”

Potter takes a deep breath, his eyes at last looking directly back at Tom. “We have to use someone as an anchor to keep you firmly tethered to the time period,” Potter says. He sounds like he’s reciting a geometry lesson. “So that anchor would be me. And we can’t let you interact with too many people in the future, or something could go wrong.”

“So you want to keep me prisoner,” Tom says. “Because that’s what I’m hearing.”

Potter’s face falls. His shoulders twitch as they slump. “It’s not like that,” Potter says quietly. “I really do want to help you, Tom.”

Tom walks right up to him so that there’s only a few inches left between them, so that Potter has to look at him. They are nearly the same height. Tom can see the flecks of hazel in Potter’s green eyes. There is a dark, angry scar peeking out from underneath Potter’s unkempt hair.

“I don’t need help,” Tom says flatly. “Not from you, not from anyone.”

Potter’s expression turns conflicted. “Don’t think of it that way, then. Think of it as… think of it as you helping me, if that makes it sound better. Just come with me, Tom.” His eyes are so sincere, so wide and innocent. Tom can’t help but think they’re beguiling, in a way. Like Potter’s gaze is a specific siren call just for him.

“And if I don’t?” Tom demands. “Will you try to force me?” He’s not allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts, but he’ll do it if it means breaking this Potter boy in half for lying to him. Because Tom refuses to believe that he could die, just like that, in the obscurity of a dirty Muggle war. All of his careful plans, all of the scraping he’d had to do to claw his way up the Slytherin ranks. All of it for naught.

No. Tom refuses to believe he’s going to die. Not here at Wool’s, not before he’s made something of himself. He’s a wizard, he’s researched the ways to avoid death, and he will accomplish at least one of them.

“I wouldn’t want to force you,” Potter says. “But if the alternative means leaving you here to die, then I will.”

Tom draws his wand. Potter eyes the motion but makes no move towards his own wand, and Tom wonders if he’s that overconfident or if he’s simply a fool.

“Tom,” says Potter. He pulls out a strange device that’s been looped around his neck. Tom recognizes a variant of the Time-Turner, which is a Ministry-restricted item. “I promise that if you come with me, nothing bad will happen to you.”

“But if I stay here, I’ll die.”

Potter nods his head in a jerk.

Tom wants to sit down to process this, but he doesn’t want to show weakness in front of this stranger. He taps his wand impatiently against his thigh, thinking. The suddenness of the situation, coupled with all the stress and the fear, is clouding his judgement. Tom feels his control slipping away, and he hates it. He hates it, and he hates the patient, _understanding_ look on Potter’s face. 

A while passes in silence. Then Potter speaks again.

“What else could I do to convince you?”

Easy. “Let me use Legilimency on you.”

Potter shakes his head. “I can’t do that, Tom. If you get inside my head and learn too much about the future, you might decide to stay here to change it, and that can’t happen.”

“Veritaserum, then. Just enough to loosen the tongue.”

“Do you have any?” Potter asks. “Because I don’t, and I’m pretty sure neither of us can afford to brew or buy it.” Potter checks the Muggle watch strapped to his wrist. “We have less than thirty minutes before I have to go back.”

Tom has to work at keeping his expression in check. “Do the people you normally try to save just go with you without asking any kinds of questions first?”

A shadow falls over Potter’s face. The first sign of something deeper behind the friendly demeanour. “Yeah,” Potter says. “Something like that.”

* * *

In the end, Tom goes with him. Tom is only thirteen, assured of his own importance and afraid that death will come knocking. Though Potter looks to be a year or so older than him, Tom is sure if it comes down to a fight, he will have the advantage. Potter is too soft to know how to duel, how to properly utilize or defend against dark magic.

Tom packs his trunk with the few things he owns. Potter, thankfully, doesn’t watch the process—he turns his attention to the books and articles left on the desk, picking them up and feeding them into a small pouch.

Once they are finished, Potter pulls out a cloak and throws it around them both. Potter tells him that it’s an Invisibility Cloak. They will use it so Muggles won’t see them reappear. They go outside and walk to a busy intersection, where they stand just off to the side, next to an alleyway.

Potter loops his Time-Turner around their necks and sends the hourglass within spinning forwards in time. Standing as close together as they are, Tom can feel warmth radiating off of Potter’s body. It feels strangely familiar for a brief second, but then they are whirling through the decades, and Tom has to glance around, shifting his focus outwards so that he can take it all in.

But Tom doesn’t have long to stare. After they stop spinning, Potter is removing the Time-Turner from their necks and pulling another object out of his pocket. It’s a cloth handkerchief. Potter grabs Tom’s hand and stuffs one end of the cloth into it.

“Hold on to it,” says Potter. “We’ll be taking this Portkey to a safehouse.” Then Potter checks his watch, frowning.

Tom looks down at the handkerchief, which is plain white and has honey bees embroidered on it. Then he feels a rough yank at his navel as the Portkey activates.

They reappear outside a quaint cottage in the middle of a wide, grassy field. It’s a fairly large cottage, truth be told. Definitely larger than an average house. Two floors and white picket fence. Tom drops his half of the Portkey and steps forward without thinking.

Potter is still behind him. “This is where we’ll be staying,” he says.

They pass through the gate. Tom eyes the flower beds in the front yard. Tulips and carnations, all lovingly cultivated. Bright splotches of colour spread out underneath the windows.

“Who lives here?” Tom asks.

“No one, really.” Potter seems embarrassed. He rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s an empty property that belonged to my family.”

That’s right. The Potters are an old, pureblood family. They come from money. Tom holds back his sneer. “It will do, I suppose.”

Potter walks him to the door. “You can take any room you like,” Potter says. “Some people will be along in a few minutes to do up the wards.”

Tom pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “Wards?” he asks.

“We have to keep you here,” Potter says. Then, upon seeing Tom’s expression, he adds hastily, “Just for now. Until things get stable, alright? And I’ll be here the entire time, too, and I also won’t be able to leave.”

Tom knows he doesn’t have much choice for now. He has to play along until he understands the situation better, and then he can begin to plot his escape.

“Can I do magic here?” Tom asks. He grasps the doorknob, which is unlocked, and pushes his way inside.

The inside of the cottage is plain but clean. There are no personal touches here; no photographs or art installments. Even the furniture looks bland. A rectangular coffee table, a large brown couch, and an empty, four-tier bookshelf.

Tom tugs his trunk through the entrance and into the hallway.

“You can once the wards are up,” Potter says. “Otherwise the Trace will find us.”

“Wonderful,” says Tom, and he means it.

* * *

Tom goes upstairs, picks a room, and unpacks his things. The room is nice and clean, the bed is made, and everything is spotless. Once his trunk has been emptied, Tom sheds his jacket and pulls on a set of robes. Then he wanders into the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is also spacious and tidy.

Tom drags his fingertips along the pale green tiles, his nails catching on the grout. The mirror opens up to reveal a shelf containing a selection of toiletries. Toothbrush, toothpaste, floss. Even a razor and a container of shaving foam. Tom shuts the cabinet and goes to examine the towels. They’re fluffy and soft to the touch.

Feeling more unnerved by the minute, Tom grasps his wand firmly in hand as he walks out of his new room and down the stairs. He can hear voices as he approaches the main hall.

Stopping just a pace or so away from the doorway to the living room, Tom attempts to listen in on the conversation.

“You’re doing Wizarding Britain a great service, Harry,” says the voice of an older man. The tone is deep and full of respect. “The world will be a better place.”

Potter doesn’t respond right away; there is a pause that stretches on for long, undeterminable moments. Then Potter does speak, his words slow and measured: “I’m just doing my best. What anyone else would do, if they were me.”

“You will be safe here,” the man continues. “We will make sure of that. And I have this for you as well. For when you both finally emerge.”

Tom resists the urge to peek around the corner to see what it is. He doesn’t want to risk being spotted.

“Thanks, Kingsley.”

“Take care of yourself, Harry Potter,” Kingsley says. There’s an odd inflection lurking around the fringes of his words. “And I will see you soon.”

“See you soon,” Potter echoes.

It is then that Tom realizes he’s standing too close to the door. He heads back towards the stairs and whirls around just in time to see a tall man with dark skin and striking navy robes exit into the entrance hall.

The man, Kingsley, stops when he spots Tom. His face is neutral, but there’s a look in his eyes that Tom can’t quite place.

“Enjoy your stay,” says Kingsley. And then he smiles at Tom, the twist of his lips sardonic.

Tom feels his unease begin to churn deep in his gut. His wand begins to rise, unbidden.

“Tom!”

Hearing his name startles him. Tom looks over to where Potter is now standing just outside the living room.

“Yes?” Tom asks, wary.

“Did you pick a room?” Harry asks.

Tom nods, watching as Kingsley glances over at Potter one final time. Then Kingsley leaves, the door shutting behind him, and then Tom is alone with Potter once again.

“They just finished setting up the wards,” Potter says. “We’ve got some radius around the property to walk, if that’s something you’d like to do. There’s also a garden out back.”

“Sure,” says Tom. It will be good to see what kind of magic he’s up against. None of his belongings upstairs are really that valuable, and Potter had said the new wards would allow them to do magic undetected. All Tom really needs with him is his wand. If necessary, he can simply knock Potter out and leave the premises. 

* * *

They leave the property and walk back out through the white wooden gate. Tom eyes the gate with annoyance. It makes him feel as though he’s a sheep trapped in a pasture.

Tom casts the Tempus Charm, just to make sure of the time and day. The year shimmers for a brief second before it vanishes. It is just past four in the afternoon on October 31st, 1995.

“There’s a path this way,” Potter says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “It leads into a clearing in the forest. Or we could just walk out into the field. Sometimes there are birds or rabbits there.”

Both locations sound ominous. “You pick,” Tom says, fingering his wand in his pocket.

They walk out towards the field. “I really like how there’s so much sky here,” Potter tells him. “It reminds me of Hogwarts. When I used to—when I lived in Surrey, with my relatives, it was never like this. Here it’s just the fresh air and the open skies.”

Tom chances a look upwards. The skies here are very blue. A few clouds are drifting lazily over their heads. It’s all peaceful and calming. Tom inhales experimentally. The air is clean.

“Nice, right?” Potter asks, smiling. His smile is a gentle tilt of his lips that somehow brightens his entire face.

Tom shrugs. “It’s alright.”

Potter walks them a bit further. They eventually reach a patch of partly-flattened grass. Tom looks out at the horizon, wondering where the wards end. Looking over his shoulder, Tom can still see the house very clearly. They haven’t walked that far off just yet.

“I like to sit here sometimes,” Potter says. “It’s a great place to think.”

They stand for a while, not talking. Potter seems to be enjoying the scenery.

“Where do the wards end?” Tom asks, impatient.

Potter’s eyes move away from their spot on the floor. As his gaze meets Tom’s, Tom can’t help but feel scrutinized.

“It’s this way,” Potter says, then resumes walking. Tom follows him.

Grass and more grass. The fields seem to stretch on forever, Tom thinks to himself.

He and Potter walk in silence until they reach the bottom of a sloping hill. Tom can see the faint shimmer of magic in the air a few paces away from them. He can even feel the presence of the wards if he concentrates hard enough.

“Here,” says Potter, holding up a hand, as if he thinks he can sense the magical vibration with his fingertips.

Tom steps closer. He doesn’t recognize the wards, though he admittedly hasn’t seen enough of them to be able to know all types of wards on sight. “What kind of wards are they?” he asks.

“I don’t know, exactly.” Potter’s mouth flattens a bit. “I mean, I got how it works explained to me, but I really don’t know how the actual wards were made or anything. Sorry.”

“Explain, then.”

“Well,” Potter says. “The wards are supposed to keep us in a sort of… separate bubble? From the rest of the world. I’m the anchor holding all this in place. Without me, you would just snap back to the past. But the reason why we can’t leave yet is because the world outside is still the world that it was before you got brought here.” Potter frowns, pausing. “Does that make sense?”

“Sure,” Tom says. Since Potter seems agreeable to answering his questions, he can always ask some more later on. “What else?”

“As time passes outside, the timeline will slowly start to overwrite itself in your absence. We’re basically stuck here until all of the changes run their course. At that point the wards will break down on their own, and that’s when we’ll be able to leave.”

“And how long will that take?” Tom asks, his eyes narrowing.

Potter sucks his lower lip into his mouth. “No one’s really sure how long it will take. It could be a few hours, or days, or more.”

Something inside of Tom snaps. It’s a switch somewhere in his mind that releases a flood of vitriol and aggression.

“You’re not _sure_?” Tom seethes, drawing his wand. “You expect me to just stay locked up on this little farm until the wards just fail on their own? What kind of idiot do you take me for, Potter?”

Potter looks alarmed. He takes a half-step back as Tom stalks up to him. Tom jams the end of his wand up against the bottom of Potter’s chin.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” Potter says. “But I don’t think you’d want to go back either.”

“You’re a liar,” Tom says. “You lied to me.” The tip of his wand is pressed against Potter’s throat. He could kill Potter, if he wanted. Nearly any spell would do the job at this range. 

“Tom Riddle doesn’t exist here. I can promise you that.”

Tom stares into Potter’s brilliant green eyes. He can see the skies above them reflected in Potter’s glasses, can feel the beginnings of an Occlumency shield blocking his attempt at Legilimency. Potter is unyielding, unafraid. He holds Tom’s gaze as though he’s faced death a thousand times before.

“You’ve trapped me here,” Tom says. “I ought to kill you for that alone.”

“If you kill me, you go back to 1940.” Potter places his hand on Tom’s wand arm. His voice is calm. “We’re trapped here together, Tom. It’s just you and me.”

A spell blasts its way out of Tom’s wand and into Potter’s throat. Potter goes flying backwards and lands in a heap on the grass a few feet away. Tom strides towards him, flinging spell after spell in Potter’s direction. Potter squirms, dodging frantically, rolling from side to side as he scuttles back.

“Wait—” Potter protests, voice weakened from the impact of Tom’s spell.

“Shut up,” Tom advises, tossing another bolt of light from his wand. This time his spell finds its mark, leaving Potter silent.

Potter scrambles to his feet, fumbling for his wand. He’s a fool, Tom thinks. A fool to think that Tom’s fear of dying would protect him from harm.

“I don’t have to kill you to hurt you,” Tom says.

Potter raises his wand into the starting position for _Expelliarmus_. Tom can see the completed movements in his mind’s eye. Tom decides he’ll stun Potter and then drag the body back to the house. Once Potter is secure, then he can think further on what to do.

Tom fires off his spell a moment before Potter does. The white light slams into Potter’s red Disarming Charm with a loud, cracking sound. Their spells flare brightly for a second, momentarily blinding them both. Tom grits his teeth and shields his eyes with his free arm.

Then Tom’s wand starts to glow, a cacophony of colours flashing in and out of existence. It takes a moment for Tom to realize exactly what they are. The colours bursting from his wand are echoes of the spells he had cast at Potter. The spells emerge one after the other, ending with the Knockback Jinx. Then bright ropes of golden light begin to wrap around him and Potter, caging them in.

Shaken by the sight, Tom yanks his wand away. This breaks the stream of magic that is binding him to Potter. The golden cage fades away.

Angry, Tom aims his wand once more, dispelling the Silencing Charm. “What was that?” he demands, wand still pointed at Potter.

Potter’s eyes are wide. “It’s called _Priori Incantatem_ ,” Potter says, after a second has passed.

Tom only knows _Prior Incantato_ , which sounds similar but is nowhere near as powerful. He doesn’t like that Potter knows more than he does. What else does Potter know? Is he more powerful than Tom had originally anticipated?

“It spits out echoes of the last few spells you cast,” Potter adds on.

“I saw that,” Tom snaps. 

Potter still has a loose grip on his wand, but he makes no move to raise it. “Are… are we done here? Or did you want to try and curse me some more?”

At this point, Tom has very few options. If Potter is bluffing, then Tom ought to just kill him and leave this place. If Potter is telling the truth, then the situation gets more complicated.

Tom can bide his time and study the wards, hoping that there is a way to break free of them. This is a dangerous option. Time is not so easily meddled with; Tom has read the stories of those who have tried to bend time to their whims.

He can also remain here with Potter until the wards fall on their own. He’d probably end up killing Potter out of sheer frustration. Not to mention he no longer trusts his wand to work properly against Potter. He might not be able to properly defend himself if it comes to another duel. 

“Truce?” Tom asks, lowering his wand.

Potter eyes him with skepticism. “Alright.”

They stow their wands away. Tom looks back over at the wards. While this situation may be preferable to death, it is not ideal by any means. Tom will have to find a way out of here, lest he find himself trapped with Potter for the rest of his days.


	2. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom walks towards the kitchen, where he hopes there will be accessible food. The kitchen is quaint, the sort of space that Tom would expect from a happy family of four. There’s a refrigerator there, which Tom opens up. A good deal of food is laid about inside, but what stands out is a plate with a clear, plastic cover on top of it. Stuck to the cover is a note that reads ‘Tom’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Harry convinces Tom to leave his time period and travel to the future. They arrive at an isolated house on the countryside. Harry and Kingsley have a brief conversation while Tom eavesdrops. Later, Harry shows Tom the wards boundary and explains how the wards work. Tom is enraged to discover that he and Harry are trapped here until the timeline rights itself. They duel, which results in Priori Incantatem. Following this, Tom calls for a truce and resolves to find a way to escape.

When they return to the house, Tom heads straight for his room, shutting and locking the door behind him. The room is mostly empty, even with Tom’s belongings scattered about. Waxed wooden floor and pale grey walls, a twin size bed with two large pillows and navy sheets. Better than his room at the orphanage, though it is still a prison cell.

The rest of the night is mostly silent. Occasionally, Tom hears Potter puttering about in the hallway or near the stairs, but Potter never tries to talk or open the door.

Tom ignores the hunger pangs in his stomach and waits.

The hours pass, and eventually Potter comes upstairs for bed. Tom hears the sound of a door clicking and a lock turning. He stands, wand in hand, and exits his room.

With no sunlight, the hallway is pitch black. Tom lights his wand with a muttered “ _Lumos_ ” and continues to creep softly towards the stairs. He doesn’t remember if they creak or not. But the house is in good condition, and the paint on the outside looked clean and fresh, so Tom supposes they would have fixed up the stairs as well.

Still, Tom hesitates before he makes the first step. Steps down. Nothing. Just the soft touch of his foot upon the floor. Then another, then another, each step as careful as the last, until he reaches the final stair and lands, silently, on the ground.

The first thing he notes is the house is less friendly now that night has fallen. The sparse furnishings imply emptiness rather than newness, and the lack of decor gives the air an alien and distant feeling.

Tom walks towards the kitchen, where he hopes there will be accessible food. The kitchen is quaint, the sort of space that Tom would expect from a happy family of four. There’s a refrigerator there, which Tom opens up. A good deal of food is laid about inside, but what stands out is a plate with a clear, plastic cover on top of it. Stuck to the cover is a note that reads ‘Tom’.

Tom pulls the plate out and lifts the cover. It’s a sandwich.

Stepping back from the fridge, Tom lets the door close of its own volition as he moves to the nearest section of kitchen counter, setting the plate and its cover down.

Then he levels his wand and begins to cast. Spell after spell, all the ones he’s able to cast, and then a few more that he knows of but has never had reason to try. Nothing seems out of place. Tom isn’t sure if he finds this surprising or not.

He could return to the fridge or the cabinets and prepare something himself. But Potter, evidently, had made this especially for him, despite the fact that they’d fought only hours earlier.

Kindness. Weakness. Tom scoffs down at the sandwich—plain white bread covering slices of lettuce, tomato, and ham—and wonders if Potter really thinks this will win any favours.

Still, food is food, and it’s certainly better than whatever he would have gotten at Wool’s. Tom picks up half of the sandwich and takes a large bite. Edible, fairly tasty. He leaves the remainder on the plate and wanders away, sandwich half in hand.

The kitchen extends to a nice, domed dining area with large sheets of glass that make up the walls and smaller panels of lightly-stained glass that form the ceiling. It probably looks beautiful during the day, when the sunlight can stream through the soft, warm-toned colours, bathing the wooden table and chairs in hues of gold.

Tom passes by the dining room and over to the sliding door that leads to the back porch.

With his free hand, Tom pulls out his wand and aims it at the door. The door slides open, silent and without creaks. Tom walks out, careful to keep his footsteps light.

The backyard is less of a yard and more of a conglomeration of various things. There is a large plot for the garden, which consists of an assortment of plants and a wide trellis for the greenery to cling to. Little picket sticks in the ground have labels and crude drawings attached, likely of the vegetables the plots represent. An empty bird coop with a metal enclosure sits off to the side.

If they are to stay here they will have to provide for themselves, he realizes. The food stored in the house, however much of it, will not last forever. Out in the forest, there might even be a well.

Tom turns his head to gaze up at the sky. Inky black and full of stars, much like the skies around Hogwarts. He nibbles at his sandwich, his mood contemplative as he eyes the lights in the distance. Eventually, the food is gone, and he is left with only his thoughts to occupy him.

If he is to stay here, he will never accomplish all that he wants to. When he leaves, he will be weak, dependent. Attached to Potter in a way that he doesn’t wish to be.

Here now, under the endless sky and surrounded by what is essentially a roaming, idyllic countryside, it occurs to Tom just what he has left behind in the 40s. His connections, his status, his education. What will he learn here, trapped in this place like an animal with only Potter for company? Growing idle, growing stagnant. His talents and intellect laid to waste.

Tom’s hand, clenched around his yew wand, is painfully white-knuckled in its grip. The helplessness angers him. The unknown strangles his chest, wrapping it in fear and disgust. Disgust at the fear, anger at the situation he’s now placed himself in.

Potter had said that if Tom didn’t cooperate, he would be made to. Forced to. For his own good, no doubt. So Potter must have known, even then, about the connection between their wands. The strange effect that had prevented them from dueling each other properly. Potter had said Tom was the brightest mind of his age, the best student at Hogwarts. That people knew this, even fifty years in the future. So Potter would expect Tom to be powerful, knowledgeable, dangerous to duel. But the _Priori Incantatem_ was an edge, a leg up, a dirty trick that had allowed Potter to push them to a stalemate.

Tom rubs at his tired eyes, attempting to shove his exhaustion down. He ought to sleep soon. He’ll need his rest to face Potter in the morning. But before sleep, there is another half of a sandwich waiting for him in the kitchen inside.

So Tom walks back in, shutting the door softly behind him, and tries not to think of the things tomorrow will bring.

* * *

When Tom does wake, it’s well past ten in the morning. He pushes himself to his feet, a low rumble in the back of his throat that might be a yawn. Potter hasn’t come to bother him yet. Perhaps he’d seen that Tom had eaten his sandwich offering and decided that enough progress in the name of friendliness had been made.

After going through the motions of a morning routine, Tom dresses and makes his way down the stairs. The strong scent of eggs and bacon waft down the hallway. Potter is at work in the kitchen, plain white apron draped over his body while he moves about.

“Good morning,” Potter says. “I heard you get up. Thought I’d start us on a late brunch.”

Tom doesn’t say anything at first. He’s not fully awake, and part of him still wonders if this is all a strange dream. The entire kitchen is warm and smells wonderful—too good to be true.

After a beat, Tom decides a response is likely necessary. “Thank you,” he says. Then he adds, “Do you need any help?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Potter says, tone pleasant, his eyes fixed on the sizzling pan he’s minding. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Tom remains in place, stiff and suspicious. But Potter doesn’t address him further, or even glance his way, so Tom moves to the kitchen counter opposite the stove. This part of the counter sticks out, separating the kitchen from the eating area, allowing Tom to brace his forearms on the surface and watch Potter cook.

“Chairs don’t bite,” Potter adds, still not looking up.

Tom scoffs, stays where he is.

Eventually, Potter serves up two plates of breakfast foods. “There are oranges in the fridge if you want them,” Potter says, sliding a plate across the counter. Then he pulls a drawer open and hands Tom a fork.

Tom takes both things in hand and moves to the table, seating himself. Potter sits opposite and starts to eat, his fringe of hair hanging in front of his eyes whenever his head dips down. Tom spears a section of scrambled eggs, tries it, and wonders where Potter learned to cook.

“I saw the garden and the chicken coop in the backyard,” Tom says.

Potter bobs his head, swallowing. “Yeah. We have a lot stored up in the cellar that’s been magically preserved, but we’ll have to put some work in to make it last. The chickens are down there, too, all frozen up. We can go grab them after breakfast.”

Tom pokes at a piece of bacon to avoid answering, but Potter doesn’t press further or call him out on being horrible company. They scrape their plates clean, and Tom stands, snatching the plates and utensils up and bringing them over to the sink. 

It is only then that he realizes he doesn’t know any household spells. Even with his wand available, he’ll have to do the dishes by hand.

Glancing up, Tom eyes the assortment along the sink ledge. Dish soap, sponge, scrubber. The idea of doing things the Muggle way, especially now that he doesn’t even _have to,_ irritates him. He is better than this, than having to dirty his hands in the water and scrub the plates like a magicless Squib.

A throat clears behind him. Tom doesn’t jump, he _doesn’t,_ but he does whirl around to stare at Potter. “I just use _Scourgify_ ,” Potter says. “But that tends to leave a lot of soapy residue, so they’ll need to be rinsed well afterwards.”

Tom holds his position for longer than is strictly necessary, then sets the plates and utensils down into the sink, once more placing his back to Potter though all his instincts are telling him not to do so. He can sense Potter’s presence as the other boy hovers just a few paces away.

Ignoring Potter for now, Tom retrieves his yew wand and casts the spell. The dishes fill with soapy bubbles, frothy and white. Then he turns the tap, letting the water flow through and gush down, revealing clean plates beneath the bubbles.

Domestics, he thinks to himself, distaste heavy in his mind. He’ll win over Potter’s trust for now, maintain their tentative truce, and then… and then?

Tom finishes the dishes and sets them on the rack. When he turns around, he sees Potter has reseated himself at the table, book laid out.

“Towels are in the cupboard underneath.”

Seething now, Tom opens the cupboard and retrieves the first towel he sees. He wipes the dishes roughly, quickly, then sets them and the utensils in a neat pile next to the sink.

Potter walks back over, still keeping that careful distance between them. He takes the plates and forks and stows them away. “Let me show you the cellar,” Potter says when he's finished.

“Charming.”

Tom follows Potter back out into the main hall and to another door. This door is not locked; Potter twists the knob and the door swings out.

Potter glances over his shoulder, a split second of hesitation. Maybe he’s worried that Tom will push him down the stairs. Well, Tom isn’t about to volunteer to go first. He raises a brow, gesturing.

Potter descends, and Tom trails behind.

A light switch is flipped, illuminating the way down. The stairs are clean, much like the rest of the house, and there are strips installed on each step for gripping purposes. 

The cellar at the bottom is full of boxes. Stacks and stacks of them, all labelled with various types of foods. And then, of course, large cages full of immobile chickens and two large roosters.

Potter walks over and lifts one of the cages up. The creatures inside slide around, bumping against the metal. He brings the cage over to Tom, presenting it.

“We have to bring them outside,” Potter says, when Tom makes no move to retrieve them.

Reluctantly, Tom uses his yew wand to levitate the cage out of Potter’s hands. “Anything else?” he asks.

“Nope. Just this for now.” Potter hefts a second cage up. One of the chickens inside of it falls over.

Tom stares, hesitates. “Why don’t you just use your wand?”

“Huh? Oh. I don’t know. I’m used to just carrying everything, I guess.” Potter sets the cage down and retrieves his wand from his back pocket. “Thanks for reminding me, Tom.”

“I just didn’t want to be responsible if you fell down the stairs and died,” Tom says, then turns away, determined not to let Potter think that he actually cares, or that he’s afraid to turn his back.

* * *

Getting the birds unfrozen and settled into their new home takes up most of the afternoon. By the end of it, even with the use of magic, Tom’s got sweat beaded all over his forehead and dampness under his arms. Potter isn’t faring much better, from the looks of it.

“How old are you?” Tom asks him.

“I’m sixteen next July,” Potter answers, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead, dislodging the fringe and revealing the scar hidden underneath for a brief second.

“And you went to Hogwarts?”

Potter smiles at that. “Yeah. I’m a Gryffindor.”

Unsurprising. Potter has all the makings of a typical Gryffindor. Tom rolls his shoulders to try and work out the stiffness in his muscles. After they had unfrozen the birds, a number of them started running about, and it had taken a while to round them up and force them into the coop.

Tom starts to head back towards the house. He can hear the footfalls behind him that indicate Potter is following him.

“Did you want to do something else now?” Potter asks.

“No.” Tom pushes through the door, sees Potter out of the corner of his eye as Potter catches the door before it can swing shut.

He should be trying harder to win Potter over, to charm Potter into offering more information and doing things for him. But Potter is extremely irritating. He is too kind, too gentle. A Hufflepuff-Gryffindor hybrid of some kind. Tom can’t convince himself to stoop to the level of friendliness that Potter puts forth. All Tom can manage is an aloof prickliness, a defensive reaction meant to fend off pity-induced overtures.

“I can show you where the well is.”

Ah, yes, a well. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Tom stomps into the living area, unsure what he’s looking for. The bookshelf, he notes, is now full of books. School books and Muggle novels. Tom wonders how long it will take for him to read them all, how long before he grows tired of them, what boredom will feel like when he only has Potter to distract him.

Potter pulls a book from the shelf. “Fourth-year Charms,” Potter says.

“I know that.”

“You read ahead, right? We’ve got all the books up to seventh year, and then some other ones for afterwards.”

“Decent of you.”

“One of my best friends is Muggleborn,” Potter continues. “She’s the best in our year. My year. She reads a lot, and I asked her to help me pick out some books for you. Ones that you might like.”

Tom ignores him.

“They’re all new. Books that weren’t published in your time.”

Tom opens his mouth to retort, likely with a scathing comment about bribery, but when he whirls around, Potter is already in the middle of leaving the room.

A few minutes pass. Potter doesn’t return. So Tom moves to the bookshelf to glance over the titles. Once he’s looked them over, he pulls a few at random from the shelf, tucking them under his arm. The gap in the shelf is noticeable, unfortunately.

For a moment, Tom is tempted to Transfigure a few fake facsimiles to fill the holes, but to be caught doing such a thing would leave a sour taste in his mouth, so he doesn’t.

He takes the books up to his room, the room that is supposed to be his though it doesn’t feel like it, and starts to read.

* * *

Potter knocks on the door to invite him to dinner. Tom sets aside the book he’d been reading, turning his attention to the boy on the other side of the wall.

“Not hungry.”

“It’d be nice for some company,” Potter says to the door.

“Go eat outside, then. That one hen was quite enamoured with you.”

Potter snorts. “Funny. Come on, it’ll get cold if you stay here. I made Shepherd's pie.”

Tom doesn’t want to. But he should. With some effort, he swings his legs off his bed and stands up. A few short steps, and then he unlocks the door to reveal Potter’s startled expression—like a spooked animal. “Don’t expect me to linger.”

Potter smiles. “I won’t.”

* * *

Dinner is quiet. Potter eats slowly, like he’s savouring the taste of the food. Which, admittedly, tastes very excellent.

“Did your parents teach you to cook?” Tom asks, just for the sake of making conversation.

Potter stills. He chews, swallows. “No,” he says. “My aunt taught me.”

“Interesting.” Tom drops his gaze, goes back to eating, but watches Potter in the peripheral of his vision. “Do you miss them? Your family.”

“Yes.” Potter’s voice has an odd inflection to it. “I do miss them.”

Tom imagines a family unit. Two parents, one son. The father probably looks like Potter, he muses. In the way that Mrs. Cole had told Tom what his mother had said—that his handsome appearance was inherited from his father. And then the mother… beautiful, likely. Potter is a pureblood surname, a wealthy one, and powerful, wealthy families didn’t marry ugly people.

Then, long after Tom thought the conversation dead, Potter speaks again.

“They’re dead. My parents. They died when I was a baby.”

Tom looks up, then regrets doing so. Potter’s brows are slanted, his lips pursed in a frown. He’s pushed back from his chair, appetite seemingly lost, and his green eyes, once vibrant, are now dimmer.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tom says. Though the words do not hold much meaning to him, they might provide some comfort to Potter, who is softer and weaker and therefore more apt to being overly emotional.

Potter makes a strange sound, a noise caught between a snort and a sob. “Thanks, Tom.”

The silence stretches again, and then Potter stands. “I think. I think I’m done, for tonight. I’ll wash my own dishes, but it would be nice if you could dry them and put them away.”

“I can do that.”

“Thanks,” Potter repeats, head turned away, half-eaten plate of food in his hands. “Good night.”

Once Potter is gone, Tom glances at the wall, where a small clock is nailed up, ticking away. It’s barely seven o’clock. Too early to go to sleep. If he had known the topic of family would upset Potter so much, he would have gone out of his way to avoid it. So much for dinner together.

Tom scrapes his own plate clean, unwilling to see any of the food wasted. Then he waits until Potter’s left for upstairs before he heads to the kitchen.

After making quick work of the washing up, Tom circles back to the living room, to the shelf of books. This time he examines the titles with great care. No magical history books. None at all, only Muggle ones.

Tom frowns, straightening. He’ll have to ask after the absence of such books tomorrow, when Potter is in a better mood.

Then, abruptly, there is a knock at the door.

Wand in hand, Tom stomps into the entrance hall just as he hears Potter call out “Just a minute!”

Tom grasps the knob, wand aimed and ready to cast, and wrenches the door open. A young woman with shocking pink hair stares at him, unflinching.

“Riddle.” She places a hand on his outstretched wand and angles it down. “Is Harry here?”

Tom contorts his face back into neutrality. “You’re not Kingsley. Who are you? Another member of _the Order of the Phoenix_?”

The woman doesn’t say anything at first. Then her hair shifts from its bright pink to a dark, inky black. “Where’s Harry?” she repeats.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Harry clambers noisily down the stairs, depression from earlier now forgotten as he comes to a halt by the door.

“I thought we weren’t to have visitors?” Tom demands, turning to face Harry instead. “That Kingsley was the last one after the wards were completed.”

“Kingsley’s just too busy to be stopping by all the time,” Potter says quickly. “But other people can still come through until all the changes are complete. It just depends on a lot of different things.”

“Kingsley,” the woman says, interrupting, drawing the attention back to herself. Her brow, previously smoothed into an aloof expression, is now creased with confusion. “Who’s Kingsley?”

Potter’s mouth drops open, gaping like a fish. “Kingsley,” Potter repeats, dubious. “Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

The woman hesitates, lips pursed. “Sounds vaguely familiar.”

The changes, Tom realizes. They’ve already started.

Potter must have come to the same conclusion, because his gaze meets Tom’s, and there’s a certain _conviction_ in those viridian eyes.

“Never mind,” Potter says, drawing out the pause between the words. “Did you come here for something in particular?”

“The last of the spells are being performed today,” the woman says. “So I’m here to see if there’s anything else you need before you’re sealed off for good.”

“But—” Potter starts, then stops, then swallows, his eyes darting over to Tom again— _what for?_ Then Potter says, “But the… the others... they’ll still be able to come through?”

The woman doesn’t miss the shift in body language. Her next words are slow. “They ought to be able to, Harry. But only if there’s an emergency, and you can’t be counting on them.”

“I know,” Potter says, now a bit breathless. “I won’t unless it’s an emergency.”

“There are things I’d like,” Tom interjects. “If you’re taking a list.”

“Sure.” Tom gets the impression the woman is only humouring him, but with Harry here as well, she can’t deny Tom’s request for things of his own.

“I have parchment upstairs,” Tom says, brisk. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

And then he turns away, only sparing a sharp glance over his shoulder at the pair still waiting by the door. No doubt they will talk about him while he’s not around, but if he’s quick enough and quiet enough, he might be able to catch a good deal of the conversation with them none the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think my main problem with writing is that i know how the story starts, and how the story ends, only the path to get there is very much flexible and subject to whims of fancy lmao. this chapter took a very interesting turn as a result.
> 
> i would like to emphasize that this story is a **canon-divergence,** and that's not just because of the time-travel, fix-it aspect. the way harry treats tom has reasons behind it which will be explained eventually. for now, bask in the softness that is harry being a nice person and a good boy.
> 
> thanks for reading, hope you all enjoyed the chapter.


	3. Week One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Tom passes through the entrance way, his reflection catches his eye. Tousled curls, face pink with the cold. Shadowed eyes and a permanent scowl. The edges of his nose and ears are nearly red. Tom sniffles, disgruntled, and intends to stomp upstairs to change his clothes and cast several Warming Charms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Harry and Tom engage in a clipped mockery of domestics. Dinner together leads to an uncomfortable conversation about Harry's parents being dead. Harry, upset, goes to bed early. Tom's plans for a quiet evening alone are interrupted by a woman with bright pink hair. It is then that both Harry and Tom learn that Kingsley Shacklebolt no longer exists.

Tom writes down the things he wants. Magical history books, for one, though he doubts he’ll get them. A pet snake, for another, because he’s unsure if there will be any amicable ones out in the woods.

Potter likely won’t enjoy the company of a snake, Gryffindor that he is. But Tom isn’t about to forsake one of the things that makes him special simply because he’s trapped here. Maybe hearing Parseltongue will instill some healthy fear into Potter.

A few more things to round out the list. A broomstick, extra notebooks, and writing instruments. Other trivial items that other young boys probably ask for.

Once his list is complete, Tom folds it neatly and tucks it into his back pocket. Then he casts a Quieting Charm on his shoes before he creeps back down the stairs, moving slowly so as not to be seen or heard.

Potter is still talking with the woman, whose hair is now a bright canary yellow. The woman’s senses seem sharper than Kingsley’s; she is more suspicious of him than Kingsley had been. So Tom stays back further than he had the other day, hovering midway up the staircase.

“I’ll do my best, Harry. But I think everyone would tell you to leave it alone. It’s dangerous enough, meddling with time. Who knows what other ripple effects could result if you keep pushing?”

Tom listens, but there is no immediate response.

Then Harry says, “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.” He does not sound convinced.

“Our best bet is to say nothing and do nothing,” the woman continued. “I know it must be difficult for you. Merlin knows I couldn’t stand to be around him more than five minutes without wanting to strangle him—”

The off-handed comment stirs an unnameable feeling in Tom’s gut. She already dislikes him; he doesn’t even know why. He doesn’t even know who she is, but clearly she already has some preconceived notions of him. Had she gotten them from Potter?

Tom stomps the rest of the way down the stairs, making sure they can hear his approach.

“All done?” asks the woman.

Tom holds out his folded list. “Here.”

“No promises,” she says, face stern.

“I wouldn’t expect any.”

The woman leaves. Harry shuts the door, solemn, calmer than before. When he turns to look at Tom, the tentative smile of earlier is back on his face.

“What did you ask for?” Harry asks.

“I asked for a pet snake.” Then Tom turns around and heads back up the stairs, ignoring Harry’s voice as it calls after him.

* * *

The next morning, there is a box sitting on the kitchen counter, and a cage on the floor directly below it.

“Your snake,” Potter says in greeting. “He wants to be called Hyperion.” There’s a pan of something on the stove. Eggs again, based on the sound and the smell.

Tom walks over to the cage. The snake inside is fairly small, black, and sleek. Tom doubts that the snake picked its own name. Potter must be trying to irritate him.

Kneeling before the cage, Tom waits for the snake to notice him before he hisses out a greeting. _“Hello.”_

The snake regards him for a moment, its head twisting curiously. _“Sspeaker,”_ it says.

Tom hesitates, then asks, _“Do you have a name?”_

No head bob in response—a new snake like this wouldn’t know how to mimic human behaviour yet, anyways—but it does hiss out, _“Yess.”_

_“What iss it?”_ Tom asks, wary of the answer.

_“Other sspeaker callss name not in sspeaker tongue.”_

“Hyperion!” Potter says, his voice obnoxiously bright. “That’s his name!”

To Tom’s irritation, the snake responds, _“Yess.”_

Tom unlatches the cage and reaches for the snake—Hyperion, apparently. Hyperion obliges, curling up and around Tom’s wrist and forearm.

“He’s very majestic,” Potter says. “I’ve never seen a snake like that before, all black all over.”

Tom lifts his arm to eye level, watching Hyperion slide further along, towards his elbow. “Well, he’s mine,” Tom bites out. “You shouldn’t have named him.”

“I told you,” Potter says. “He wants that to be his name. I gave him a few options—”

“You gave him options?” Tom repeats, incredulous.

“That’s generally what me letting him pick his name means,” Potter says. “The eggs are done, by the way. Did you want to set the table?”

Tom doesn’t move a centimeter as the meaning sinks in, as Hyperion’s words play back in his head. “You can speak to snakes,” says Tom.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess you didn’t know that about me.” Potter has two plates of scrambled egg in hand as he turns around. No, wait, not eggs—omelets.

Tom isn’t sure if he’s angry. He feels like he ought to be, because speaking to snakes is his birthright. It belongs to _his_ family, to _his_ bloodline. Potter has no business speaking Parseltongue.

“Where did you learn Parseltongue from?” Tom demands, instead of moving to set the table.

“I didn’t learn it.” Potter steps around Tom towards the dinner table and sets the plates down. “It’s sort of something I got by accident.”

Tom wants to strangle Potter for various reasons, but the way Potter just doesn’t seem to _care_ is enough to drive anyone mad. “You got the ability to speak to snakes _by accident._ ”

“Yes,” says Potter. The tips of his ears are vaguely pink. “I did. Now, did you want to eat or not?”

* * *

After a silent breakfast, Tom grabs his box of things and retreats to his room, leaving Potter to do the washing up. It’s not like he asks Potter to cook for him, anyways. Tom can feed himself with whatever food there is in the house. He isn’t useless. He doesn’t need his meals made for him.

After locking the door, Tom opens up his box. Everything he’d asked for is inside, save for the history texts. Tom unshrinks the broomstick and leaves the rest of the contents in the box, which is on the floor at the foot of his bed. The books were the only thing he’d really wanted. And maybe the broomstick, if he ever figures out how to leave this place.

Hyperion keeps Tom company for a half hour before growing bored of the room. Tom opens the window to let the snake out, warning him to be careful. The fresh air is nice, so Tom leaves the window as is, moving to the desk opposite the bed.

A half-dozen frustrated attempts to read leave Tom with few options. Potter is either somewhere in the house or out in the yard—too close by, wherever he is.

The pale gold walls of the room are pressing in. Even the cool breeze has become suffocating. Tom leaves his books where they are and exits his room, shutting and locking the door with his wand. Time to go look at the wards again.

The trek outside is much faster without Potter to slow him down. Tom finds the shimmering edge and stops a pace away from it, staring. Maybe he should have asked for books on warding; he could have presented it as a purely educational interest.

Nothing to be done about that now. Time to see where the limits lay, and hopefully plan more from there. Tom walks along the edge, following the faint thrum of magic as it circles around the property. His path takes him into the woods, through the trees and across the forest floor. The path will become overly-familiar, eventually. Tom doesn’t doubt he’ll walk this perimeter again and again, determined to understand it, determined to see himself through the barrier.

After some time of drifting, Tom emerges from the trees. He can see the house again. Its quaint, tiled roof and cheerful garden. Potter isn’t in view. Still inside, perhaps. Or behind the house, dealing with the chickens.

A sudden breeze hits. Tom shivers, wishing he’d thought to bring a cloak, and turns his gaze up to the sky. Soft grey, today. The blueness of yesterday is nowhere in sight. The season is changing, and soon there will be dreary days of heavy cloud cover and torrential rainfall.

Tom jams his hands in his pockets to keep them warm and keeps walking.

* * *

When Tom passes through the entrance way, his reflection catches his eye. Tousled curls, face pink with the cold. Shadowed eyes and a permanent scowl. The edges of his nose and ears are nearly red. Tom sniffles, disgruntled, and intends to stomp upstairs to change his clothes and cast several Warming Charms.

“You’re back.”

Potter is in the doorway that leads to the kitchen, hands knotted together in front of his chest. Worried that Tom had left him? Anxious that Tom had found a way to break free.

“Yes,” Tom says.

“I fed Hyperion while you were out. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” Tom says. He’d thought the snake would go hunting, but maybe there isn’t enough prey in the immediate area. Hyperion is a small snake, still. Too small to go too far, too small to chase larger rats?

“He’s up in your room,” Potter continues. “He wanted to go look for you, but I told him he’d probably get lost.”

“Alright.”

“Um. I wasn’t sure if you wanted lunch or not, so I only made food for myself. But there’s things in the fridge for you, and you can take what you like. Maybe next time I can make leftovers?”

Tom feels his nose twitching with the cold. The urge to sniff is unbearable. “If you want. I don’t care.”

“Okay.” Potter frowns, stares at the floor. Dismayed. Upset at the rejection.

Tom crosses his arms, inhales slowly through his nose. “I’m going to get some food, and then I’ll be back upstairs. We can have dinner together.” He’d offer to cook, but he’s only ever helped prepare meals before. The first time to attempt such a thing would be when Potter wasn’t around.

“Okay.” Potter looks back up, smiling. “See you then.”

Tom waits to see if Potter will move out of the doorway. Nothing happens, and then Potter blinks, owlishly so.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. I’ll just go outside. So I won’t bother you.” And then Potter drifts down the entrance hall, brushing past Tom as he goes. Potter grabs a cloak off the rack and heads out the door, leaving a rush of cold air behind him.

* * *

Tom settles into a new pattern with Potter. They take breakfast together but not lunch, and they meet back together for dinner. Potter doesn’t push for company anymore, though he does invite Tom to help garden or mind the chickens with him every so often.

There is space between them, a gulf that Tom is perfectly content to leave.

Dinner is filled with chatter—Harry’s chatter as he talks about his day, or what he’s read, or what he thinks they ought to have for breakfast tomorrow.

Having already taken mental stock of their inventory, Tom is more concerned with what they’ll do if the food runs out. Gamp’s Law is firm on this subject. They can make more food as long as they have it, they can make changes to the food they already have. There are chickens in the yard, but who knows how long those would last?

Tom knows what rationing feels like. It’s a bit selfish, but he wants to enjoy the full meals while they last. It’s only their first week, he tells himself. There’s still plenty of time and plenty of food. Crates and crates of shrunken goods resting in the basement. And, of course, the well.

The well was easy to find and even easier to use with magic. Tom had given it a go, tugging up a bucket of water. Filtering the water will be simple enough, and access to the water will help keep the garden alive should their pipes fail. The garden that Harry is painstakingly fixated on cultivating.

All of Tom’s experience with plants comes from Herbology class, and so the only chore he bothers with is weed removal. Harry seems content to busy himself with the rest of it, by hand of all things, and if he wants Tom to help with magic, then all he needs to do was ask.

By the end of their first week together, restlessness and boredom are knocking. Tom itches to do something, anything. To feel productive, to feel _powerful._ He wants to blast down the wards and find out what this new world holds.

* * *

“You’re extra cranky today,” Potter comments idly over dinner one night.

“I’m bored,” Tom says, shoving his portion of string beans across his plate. “There’s nothing to do here on this stupid farm.”

“There’s still a whole bookcase in the sitting room,” Harry says. “I know you can’t have read them all yet.”

“I’m bored of reading.”

Potter scoops a mouthful of scalloped potatoes into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He swallows, then says, “We could read something together and talk about it. Like English class.”

Tom hasn’t thought of English class in ages. Not since he’d started Hogwarts. English class is pedestrian, part of being a useless Muggle, part of the life he’d had before he’d become a wizard. 

“Seems like a waste of time,” Tom says. “What use is there in having a book club? We’re not getting any prizes for it.”

“Just something to do,” Potter says. “Since you’re bored.”

“I’m not that desperate.” Tom clears the rest of his plate and pushes back in his chair. “Are you done?”

“Not yet.” Potter bites down on his bottom lip, pensive. “You know, it wouldn’t be so… boring… if you talked to me. We could talk and do things together. People aren’t meant to live on their own. It’s not healthy.”

“What do you expect us to do?” Tom asks, incredulous. “We’re not friends. I don’t know you, and you’re keeping me prisoner here.” Keeping him here for reasons that Tom doesn’t fully understand yet.

Potter winces. “You’re not a prisoner, Tom. I told you. I’m stuck in here just like you are. It’s just how it has to be for the magic to work.”

Tom bristles, skin crawling with that itch to lash out. “No one asked you to stay here,” Tom spits out. “I would have been just fine on my own. Or they should have sent someone I’d actually get along with, instead of a brainless, tactless Gryffindor.”

Potter’s jaw twitches, his mouth pressing into a frown. “You don’t have to be such a brat,” Potter says, and it’s the most rise Tom’s gotten out of him since they arrived in this hell together.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says in mocking tones of sympathy. “Did no one ever tell you that not everyone will like you, _Harry?_ Or did they leave that fact out when they shoveled that silver spoon into your guileless mouth?”

“Shut up,” Potter says, fists clenching on the table, wrinkling the pristine table cloth. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough to know that I don’t care to be friends,” Tom says, snarling the last word.

“Maybe if you had real friends, you wouldn’t be such an arrogant tosser,” Harry says, shoving back in his seat.

Tom wants to slam Potter into the wall, hold him there by the neck, close his fingers down one by one over that warm skin and bobbing Adam’s apple—a countdown to Potter’s last, wheezing breath. Crude, but effective.

But he can’t. He can’t because killing Potter is supposed to send Tom tumbling back into the midst of World War II. Tumbling towards death, if what they say is true.

Potter’s eyes are hard. There is no wand in his hand, only fists.

Tom knows that Potter plays Quidditch. Played Quidditch, when he was at Hogwarts. Potter’s palms have calluses on them from gripping the broomstick too hard, even with the use of gloves. Rough hands that should have been healed over with magic. But Potter does everything the Muggle way when it suits him, so this is unsurprising.

Only… why _does_ Potter do everything the Muggle way? Even disregarding the incident where Potter had forgotten they could do magic, Tom’s seen Potter out in the garden, tools in hands, dirt smudges on his face and arms. Why all the effort?

Tom thinks the answer must be complicated. There’s also a part of him that doesn’t want to know the answer, and he’s not sure why that part of him exists. Is he afraid of knowing why Potter is so strange and unpredictable? Why Potter is so infuriatingly nice to him?

“I have friends,” Tom says. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The heat in Potter’s eyes sparks again, blazing, and Potter opens his mouth to speak, probably to disparage Tom further. But then the fire dies, dropping down to nothing, and Potter’s mouth snaps shut. Potter blinks, frowning, then says, “That’s fair.” Potter shifts, shoulders loosening though his jaw remains firm, his hands held in a ready position. “We don’t know that much about each other.”

Tom doesn’t relax. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

“If we’re going to trust each other,” Potter says, “then we need to get to know each other. Or this is only going to result in more arguments.”

More information. A peace offering? Potter knew enough about him to come and fetch him from the past. Tom knows very little about his mysterious saviour. Other than the tidbit about the dead parents.

“Fine,” Tom says. “Let’s share.”

* * *

They clear the table and do the dishes in silence. Then they retire to the sitting room, where Potter pops onto one of the armchairs. Some of the tension has returned, but it’s not unbearable.

“I can go first,” Potter offers. “Since I technically know things about you already.”

Tom holds his mouth stiff to prevent the sneer from peeking out. “Very well.”

“I was born in Godric’s Hollow,” Potter says. “I lived with my parents, who were childhood sweethearts. My dad was an only child, and my mum was a Muggleborn. When I was a baby, they died protecting me from an intruder.”

“Tragic.”

Potter pauses to glare, then continues, “So I was sent to go live with my mum’s relatives. They’re Muggles, and they hate magic. I didn’t know I was a wizard until I got my Hogwarts letter. I didn’t even know my parents were magic. My aunt always told me they’d died in a car crash.” Potter frowns, shrinking in on himself.

“But you found out eventually,” Tom points out. “And now you have this house. And other things, I assume.” Wealth and power. A name to rest his laurels on. Acceptance in a society that prizes blood over all.

“Yeah.” Potter shrugs. “But Hogwarts was—is—the first real place I think of when I think of home.”

Tom thinks of Hogwarts as home, too.

This simple statement tugs something loose inside of him. He can feel it slide into place, relaxing some tightly wound spring buried deep in his chest.

“Hogwarts is special,” Tom concedes.

Potter’s mouth falls open, just a soft parting of his lips. “I mean—yeah. It really is. There’s nowhere else like it. I like to just walk the halls and the grounds at night when I can’t sleep.”

“I do that,” Tom says, the words slipping out before he can think better of them. “Or I sit in the common room, where it’s quiet.”

“It must be peaceful,” Harry agrees. “With the lake and all.”

Sometimes the gentle lull of the water had sent Tom straight to sleep. He’d wake after dozing off in an armchair, slumped over his textbooks. Though the room had been built for Purebloods, for heirs of noble houses, Tom knows he belongs there amongst the ambitious and the elegant.

Then Tom remembers.

“You’re a Gryffindor,” Tom accuses. “When have you ever seen my common room?”

“Oh.” Potter’s face shutters. “I did in my second year. I snuck in.”

Tom’s not sure if he ought to be impressed. He hasn’t been in other common rooms yet, but now he wants to because it’s unfair that Potter’s done something he hasn’t.

“I can tell you what the Gryffindor common room looks like,” Potter offers.

Tom shrugs like the answer doesn’t matter one way or the other.

“We’ve got lots of squashy armchairs,” Potter says. “And rugs, and the large fireplace. Lots of tables for studying or playing games with your mates. The entrance hole is covered up with the portrait of the Fat Lady. She’s sort of loud, but she’s mostly nice if you humour her. Oh, and inside, our stairs that lead up to the dorms are separate for boys and girls, but in your first year you get the dorms at the very top, so you can see out across the grounds real easily.”

“Sounds nice,” Tom says, and he does mean it. He had wandered the castle rooftops before to take in the sight of the grounds. The Quidditch pitch and the Great Lake. The Forbidden Forest and Hogsmeade in the distance.

Hogsmeade. Tom would have been permitted to visit Hogsmeade this year. But now he wouldn’t get to, because he would be here with Potter instead.

“Maybe you’ll get to see it once we’re out,” Potter adds. “I could show you.”

Tom kicks at the floor. “Once we’re out. You don’t even know when that will be.”

“Well,” Potter says, “there’s nothing we can really do about that. So we just have to make the best of it, you know? I’m going to keep studying for my OWLs, anyways. Just in case.”

OWLs. Tom doesn’t like the reminder that Potter is older than him. That he knows more.

“What were your relatives like?” Tom asks, because he knows the question will bite. “The Muggle ones.”

As expected, Potter doesn’t answer immediately. “They’re not the nicest people,” Potter says, shifting his gaze to the bookshelf. “I’m glad to be away from them.”

“You stay with them every summer?”

“Yeah.” Potter turns his head back to face Tom. “I always wanted to stay at Hogwarts, though.”

They stare at each other. Two young boys with upbringings that aren’t quite the same. Tom feels discomfort creeping around him, curling up his spine, coating his lungs like tar.

“Here’s not so bad,” Potter says after a pause, tone full of false cheer. “No one to tell us what to do. It’s nice to have a break from other people.”

Tom’s not so sure if he feels the same way. He’s always thrived with people, plucking their threads, kicking the pebbles that lead to avalanches. Say this, cause this. The give and take of behaviours that Tom knows better than any spell or textbook. He _knows_ people. This is the advantage he has, the power he uses.

Except with Potter.

Once again, Potter proves to be a frustratingly competent exception to Tom’s plans and conceptions. A disaster and a puzzle rolled up into one. Tom’s picked people apart before. His housemates, his professors. He learned what made them tick and twisted it to his own agenda. But Potter is kind when he ought to be cruel, understanding when he should be as bigoted as the rest of his kind.

If what Tom’s seeing and hearing and guessing is true, then Harry Potter never grew up with a silver spoon. He never grew up with any silver at all.

“Let’s go out to the yard,” Tom says. “I want some fresh air.” He stands, deliberating, eyes sweeping over Potter’s mop of dark hair, his gleaming green eyes. The wide set of those eyes that implies innocence. The jagged scar on the forehead that suggests Potter is more than he seems. “You can tell me about the gardens,” Tom adds, gentle.

Harry smiles. It’s genuine, beautiful, and lights up his eyes with a dazzle that Dumbledore never managed for all his grandstanding and placating words. Tom finds that he can trust this boy, this smile, this silvertongue that matches his own.

“Okay,” Harry says, scrambling to his feet. “I was really glad when I saw there was space for one. My aunt has gardens in her yard, mostly flowers. She never let me grow anything, and I had to trim everything the way she liked. So it wasn’t the same. But here I can grow all sorts of things, mostly food, but it’s going to be really great once it’s done, Tom, you’ll see…”

Tom lets Harry ramble on as they walk through the house. He’ll pick Harry apart in a different way. Learn the bits of history that make him up. Pry apart those open arms, that bleeding heart. Scrape up all the kindness there is, find out what’s left over.

And then, maybe, he can convince Harry to side with him, help him escape this place. They are tied together now, tied by time, tied by the wards that hold them in place. Harry’s fate is tied with his, and Tom will drag them to where they need to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. now i can stop getting confused and typing 'harry' when i mean to type 'potter'.
> 
> i feel like since the previous chapter, my writing has gotten a lot better? i spent a solid period of time just churning out 'til death do us part' (WHICH STILL NEEDS TO BE FINISHED 😭) and 'the office tribute', and i think the difference is noticeable. but maybe that's just me.
> 
> anyways, i am gonna be bold and estimate a total of nine chapters for this story. let's see if i stick to it this time.
> 
> also, special thank u to kelsey for hyperion's name ❤️👌🏼


	4. Month One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry had woken early and gone out to meet Dumbledore. Tom crumples the note and tosses it. He makes toast for breakfast. Afterwards, he paces the kitchen, waiting for Harry to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Tom learns that Harry speaks Parseltongue. Over the course of the week, he grows restless and bored. He and Harry get into another argument, only this time they end up talking it out. Tom realizes that he's better off with Harry as an ally rather than a foe, and adjusts his plans accordingly.

Harry sets up a large paper calendar in the sitting room. He pins it above the fireplace and crosses off the days one by one, drawing large red Xs over each blank, white square.

Tom flips through the months when Harry isn’t around, spots the hand-drawn present on December 31st and the label underneath that says ‘Tom’s Birthday’ in Harry’s messy writing.

Tom helps out in the garden. He watches Harry work without gloves, sees the dirt accumulate under the nails and in the nail beds and in the slight wrinkles and folds of the skin. Harry says he likes the earthy feeling, says it grounds him. Tom doesn’t quite agree with the sentiment of it, but he does add it to Harry’s endless list of odd quirks.

In his free time, Tom flips through one of the healer’s books on the bookshelf in the sitting room, reads up on the spells for repairing common cuts and scrapes, sucks in the information into the whirlpool of his mind.

Harry cooks, Tom cleans, and they take all their meals together.

Hyperion chases the chickens in their backyard while Harry laughs. The sound is pure happiness, untainted by anxiety or self-consciousness.

Tom teaches Hyperion to recognize English words—not that the snake needs to, because Harry speaks the language, the dead language of serpents that Tom had held close to his chest for so, so long.

Harry doesn’t speak Parseltongue often. The only time he does speak it is when Hyperion addresses him directly. Tom tries to do the same, but Harry always answers him in English.

It’s frustrating, but Tom can be patient. He can continue to ask, to engage, and eventually Harry’s avoidance will be an oddity, a discomfort, and Harry will have no choice but to respond in kind.

The woman with the ever-changing hair—Metamorphagus, Tom learns—returns two more times over the course of the month. She brings more letters for Harry along with other things for the both of them. More clothes, warmer ones for the upcoming winter months. Extra firewood in case their magic fails them.

Tom doesn’t think they actually need all these things. They’re an excuse for bringing the letters, perhaps.

But as a result of her visits, Tom becomes privy to all the items in the house.

The potions cabinet full of remedies for various common ailments. The pile of board games tucked away on the highest shelf in the downstairs closet. The additional linens and towels and blankets that are rolled up and packed into boxes in the attic. Bars of soap and tubes of toothpaste. More things than Tom has ever had access to, let alone owned for himself.

Tom enjoys the luxury of his own room and a bathroom that he only has to share with one other person, but he doesn’t stop thinking about the cost of it all, especially when he looks out the window in the early morning and sees the faint shimmer of wards in the distance.

* * *

As time passes, as he and Harry grow used to each other, Tom feels secure enough to pry for information.

“Who is Kingsley?” Tom asks.

They’re sat out on the porch, and the sun is setting behind the distant fields, golden warm glow blending up into the darkening sky. Tom had been reading, but now the book in his lap is shut. Harry has Hyperion curled on his lap, blanket draped over the tiny snake’s coiled form.

“He’s an Auror,” Harry says. “Was an Auror, I guess.”

“Did you ever figure out why he disappeared?” Was it because of Tom’s absence that the man no longer existed?

“No,” Harry says. The sunset is reflected on the lenses of his glasses. “But I’m hoping he’ll be back once all this is through.”

Tom wedges his book between his thigh and the armrest of his chair, then pulls his legs up, feet on the seat, so he can wrap a loose arm around his knees. “Isn’t it strange? That people can wink in and out of existence like that.”

“Yeah.” Harry shuffles in place. Hyperion wakes up, then drops to the ground, heading for the house, tail disappearing around the open door frame.

“Just think,” Tom continues, musing. “That could be happening right now. People made and unmade, all because of me. Because you brought me here.”

Harry says nothing. His mouth is a thin line, his eyes distant. The glare of the sunset is fading away.

“It’s powerful,” Tom says. “What time can do. I’d always thought that death was the most powerful, the most unstoppable. But time is part of that, isn’t it? Time leads to death.”

“Yeah,” Harry says again, and then he releases a breath. Low and shuddering, a soft pass of fog into the cooling atmosphere. “Time is a dangerous thing.”

Tom releases his knees, pivots to face Harry instead. “Why don’t you tell me more about what Hogwarts is like now? Are the classes all the same? And what of the teachers?”

Harry blinks, glancing back over. His shoulders relax, minutely, and some warmth returns to his eyes. “Okay,” says Harry. “I can do that.”

So Tom listens. Harry expounds upon his Hogwarts years, on the disastrous Defense teachers he’s had, on the favouritism of the House Cup and the blatant rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Tom notes that Harry doesn’t use any names when he speaks, that he takes care to tell one story at a time. Tom does learn that the Headmaster of the school is none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Tom can’t help but ask. “And is he a good Headmaster?” 

“He is,” Harry says, eager. “He’s the very best. He’s your teacher, isn’t he? He used to teach Transfiguration.”

“Yes,” Tom says, curt. “He was Head of House for Gryffindor as well.”

Harry hums in response, rocking back in his chair. “But you had Professor Slughorn as your Head of House, right?”

“I did.” Tom pulls his gaze away. Harry knows these things because they happened in the past, but Tom can’t help but feel exposed, his layers peeled back, his life on display like a moth pinned to a board.

“What was he like? Professor Slughorn.”

Tom shrugs. “A good professor. He favours the well-connected, the talented, the intelligent.” Students with lineage and connections, but also students like Tom, who show promise. As if showing promise, showing real talent, is anywhere on par with having a famous relative.

Tom hates it all. He hates the extravagant suppers and the backhanded compliments that disparage his lack of a surname. But he swallows his pride behind a beatific smile because Slughorn is _useful,_ and Tom collects the things that have uses. 

Harry has use, too. Tom just needs to figure out what form that use will take.

Slughorn might be content with his trophy cabinet of gifts and photographs, but Tom wants more than that, and he isn’t afraid to reach for it.

“Doesn’t sound too bad.” Harry’s hand runs along the edge of the blanket that still rests in his lap. “Did you like the class, at least?”

“Potions is methodical,” Tom says. “Following instructions. They don’t let us experiment, so there isn’t much to do other than memorizing ingredients and their properties. Teaching the class requires a mountain of patience and a tolerance for idiots. Professor Slughorn does well enough with that, but really that class could be taught by anyone.”

“Even Binns?”

Tom scoffs, mouth quirking. “Even Binns, I suppose.”

“Must be nice to know some things never change,” Harry quips, seeming pleased with Tom’s response.

“Of all the things that ought to remain the same at Hogwarts,” Tom drawls, “Binns should not be one of them. Waste of an entire class, for most students.” 

“But not for you?”

“I use my time wisely.” Tom sniffs, straightening. “I use the period to work on other assignments.”

“That’s smart.” Harry adjusts his seated position, tucking his ankle more securely under his leg. “So what’s your favourite class? I told you that mine’s Defense.”

“I like Defense,” Tom agrees. “And Transfiguration.” Creating something from nothing, or something from something else. Using magic to craft without limitations. Even if Dumbledore is the one teaching the class, Tom finds the subject enjoyable.

“You’re good at dueling,” Harry says. The compliment sounds honest, not at all like a concession.

Tom taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair. “You as well,” he concedes.

“We could run practice duels sometime,” Harry says eagerly. “You and me.”

“Have you forgotten about our wands?” Tom asks. “It won’t work.”

“Oh.” Harry slumps back. “That’s right. Maybe I can ask Tonk—I can ask for a spare wand.”

That gets Tom’s attention. He scrutinizes Harry’s face, the way those green eyes have dropped away. “What is her name, anyways? The woman with the changing hair. You never introduced her.”

“She’s a junior Auror at the Ministry,” Harry says. “One of the youngest ones, I think.”

Harry is avoiding the question. Will pushing the subject produce a name? Tom’s not sure. He doesn’t have an accurate model of how Harry will respond, and so the chance of success is unknown.

“Interesting,” Tom says. He’ll have to watch her more closely, then. See if he can match her face to that of her potential ancestors.

* * *

The next time the woman comes by, Tom examines her. She’s clumsy, this Auror. Trips over thin air, knocks her elbows into the doorframe. It’s a wonder she ever passed Auror training at all, unless the clumsiness is just an act.

Her hair changes colour with some regularity. And, Tom has come to realize, her facial features shift as well. The differences are subtle, but Tom can tell she’s gone out of her way to alter her appearance each time she’s come by. Tom looks up the meaning of Metamorphmagus in his textbook. It’s an ability to shapeshift at will. Useful skill for an Auror to have.

Tom treats her with caution, with politeness. In return, she regards him at arm’s length, suspicion drawing tight lines of tension in her jaw and shoulders.

Tom wonders and wonders and wonders.

People don’t hate other people for no reason. There is _always_ a reason. Fear, jealousy, envy. A vast range of potential motivators. In her mind, Tom will fall into a category. It’s just a matter of figuring out which one it is.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Tom says, once the woman has left. “In fact, I would say that she hates me.”

Harry grimaces, adjusts his glasses on his face. “I don’t think she hates you, Tom.”

“I can tell she does,” Tom says. _I’m used to it,_ he does not add. Children at Wool’s looked at him in similar ways. He was better than them in every way, he was _different,_ and his greatness had always manifested hatred in others.

“She’s very protective,” Harry says, body language growing more evasive by the second. “She means well.”

“That’s not an answer,” Tom says. “And it doesn’t explain anything. What is her name?”

Harry bites down on his lower lip. “Tom,” he says. “I don’t think I should say, alright? Please don’t ask me again.”

Tom takes Harry by the arm and steers him into the living room. Surprisingly, Harry does not pull away, though he does squawk a protest as Tom drags him along, feet stumbling.

He pushes Harry down into an armchair and crosses his arms. If this has to be an interrogation, so be it.

“Why am I here?” Tom demands. “Why did you save me?”

“I—” Harry presses his lips together, pushes his glasses up for the second time. “I told you, Tom. If you stayed there, you would die.”

Tom grits his teeth, balls his hands into painful fists. “That isn’t enough,” he says, forcing the words out. “Why did you choose _me_ to save?”

Harry’s shoulders are still. His gaze meets Tom’s, and he says, “You’re the heir of Slytherin. That’s why you can speak Parseltongue, and that’s why you’re a wizard.”

“The heir of Slytherin?” Tom repeats. “Salazar Slytherin?”

At Hogwarts, Tom had researched his heritage, combing through the library archives for Toms and Riddles alike. He was named after his father, that was what Mrs. Cole had said. His father held the secret to his past, to his magical history. Only there had been nothing to find, neither Toms nor Riddles that he could have been related to.

Now Harry is telling the secret to him. A secret no longer, apparently. Maybe it is even common knowledge in this time period. He, Tom Riddle, is the heir of Slytherin.

“You’re the last living heir of Salazar Slytherin,” Harry says. “Your mother’s name was Merope Gaunt, and you are the last of the Gaunts, the last of the descendants of Slytherin.”

Gaunt is a Pureblood name. Tom remembers it from his readings on Pureblood culture. They are a family that was said to have vanished ages ago. An old family that had fallen from grace and settled into obscurity. His mother had been magical, had been a Pureblood?

“So I’ve been saved because of my heritage?”

“Not just that,” Harry says quickly. “Things aren’t the same anymore. People are more accepting of Muggleborns and Half-Bloods now. It’s the rotten sort that only care about blood status.”

“Then what else?” Tom asks, not about to let Harry derail the conversation again, no matter how interesting the subject.

Harry pauses, considering his words. “Your life has the power to change a lot of lives.”

Tom stares, discerns the truth of the words in Harry’s eyes. “And that’s all you can tell me?”

“Tom,” says Harry. “You’re not really _here._ You’re still anchored in the past. Any information we give you is dangerous.”

That’s what they tell him. Tom’s not sure if he believes it. But he has more information than he had in his own timeline. It’s a start. He just has to work at befriending Harry, convince him that it won’t hurt to share a little more. After all, it’s just the two of them here.

“Sure,” Tom promises. “I won’t ask anymore.”

* * *

Their next visitor, some days later, is someone else entirely. Not Kingsley, not the nameless female Auror. They don’t ring the doorbell. They knock, and the sound is hard, like the bang of a gavel.

Harry beats Tom to the door, has his wand drawn before the door is even all the way open. Tom draws his own wand, then dares to peek at the new guest.

_“Stupefy,”_ says Harry, voice shaking, wand flaring with red.

The man on the other side deflects the spell with ease. “Potter.” The languid drawl is familiar. “If you could please lower your wand, I believe I can explain.”

_“Expelliarmus!”_ Harry shouts.

Harry’s spell is once again deflected, and then Harry’s wand flies out of his grasp.

The door pushes open, a pale hand clenched around the side of it, but Tom is ready.

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Harry’s wand flies up in an arc, away from the intruder, just in time for Tom to lay eyes on the tall, imposing figure in the doorway. Long blond hair and a pale, pinched face. Tom has no doubt as to who this man’s ancestors are.

“Malfoy,” Tom says in a loud voice, hoping to distract.

Malfoy freezes, eyes widening as he pivots to face Tom. Harry dives for his wand, hand outstretched, nearly slamming his shoulder into the closet door opposite.

_“Stupefy,”_ Tom says.

Malfoy recovers enough to deflect. “Enough!” he says. “I am here to help. I have proof, if you would desist with all of this insanity.”

Both Harry and Tom level their wands at him. “I’ve got no reason to trust you,” Harry says, seething, wand arm trembling with anger.

“You know the requirements to pass the wards,” Malfoy says evenly. “There were no other options.”

“None except you?” Harry asks, stance unchanged. “Give me your wand, then we can talk.”

Malfoy scowls.

“We can duel,” Harry says. “I think Tom and I can take you together. Isn’t that right, Tom?”

“Yes,” Tom says. He’s tense all over, but he’s also curious about the intruder and what changes have been wrought this time.

“Fine,” Malfoy spits. “I want it back after.” Then he spins his wand, snake handle out, and Harry snatches it up.

“Harry,” Tom says, casual, “pass it to me.”

Harry hesitates. “No,” says Harry. “That’s alright.” And then he tucks the wand into his back pocket. “Let’s go into the living room.”

* * *

The three of them seat themselves awkwardly. Malfoy looks out of place amongst the plain furniture and the autumnal colouring of the decor. His pitch-black robes, heavy and elegant, drape stiffly over the lip of the squashy armchair as he adjusts them.

“I have a letter to prove my trustworthiness,” Malfoy says. “From Dumbledore.” 

“Dumbledore really does think of everything, doesn’t he?” Harry mutters, but the phrase sounds unfamiliar coming from Harry, as though he’s parroting another’s words.

Malfoy retrieves, with two fingers, a folded piece of parchment. He holds it out to Harry, disdain etched into the fine lines of his detached expression.

Harry takes it, unfolds it, reads it slowly.

Tom waits, wand in hand. “Well?” Tom demands. He should have known Dumbledore was even more wrapped up in this business than originally expected. That man is too nosy for his own good.

“He’s right,” Harry says, drawing the syllables out. “He’s supposed to be here.” Then Harry hands the parchment back. “Can I ask you something?”

“If you must.” Malfoy spares a glance in Tom’s direction. Tom notes the nervousness, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Harry says. “Do you know of him? Have you heard of him?”

“No.”

Harry sucks in a breath. “Okay. Here’s another name. Nymphadora Tonks.”

“I’m unaware of anyone by the name.” Malfoy pulls a bunch of letters out and tosses them onto the coffee table. “I’ve been told to inform you there will only be one more visit. The wards barely recognize me as it stands; I doubt I will be able to manage another trip. It has grown too dangerous for the both of us.”

“Wait,” Harry says. “That’s too soon. Dumbledore said—he said that there ought to be at least three months’ worth of visits.”

Malfoy’s gaze is fixed upon Harry, but his jaw twitches with tension, and Tom has the sudden suspicion that this is deliberate, that Malfoy is deliberately _not looking at him._ Tom wonders if this has to do with the way Malfoy had frozen up upon being addressed.

“If he ever said that,” Malfoy says, “it has now changed. Our time together is coming to an end, Potter. I should think you would be glad.”

Harry is motionless, his expression dazed. It lasts only a second, and then Harry snaps back to clarity, his eyes blazing. “Wait,” Harry repeats. “Dumbledore can still come through, can’t he? You have to tell him to come through. So I can talk to him. I need to talk to him.”

“This hardly constitutes an emergency,” Malfoy snaps. “Was the letter not clear?”

“It does if I say it does,” Harry says, voice carrying a tone of finality. “So tell him we need to talk.”

* * *

The letters are an excuse. Tom can see that now, can see it when Harry hands Malfoy’s wand back and Malfoy never turns his back, not once, not to Harry and definitely not to Tom. Tom, who Malfoy regards with a rigid mask. That mask does nothing to erase the instance of Malfoy’s fleeting terror that Tom had witnessed earlier.

The letters for Harry from his friends are a thinly veiled sham to prop atop the truth.

The truth is this:

They are afraid to leave Harry here with him.

Shacklebolt was suspicious and Tonks was borderline hostile and Malfoy was _afraid._

Tom is the heir of Slytherin, a lauded prodigy, the most ambitious student to walk the halls of Hogwarts in decades. He is, apparently, to be feared.

Harry is quiet after Malfoy leaves. Harry keeps his letters close, does not leave for his bedroom, does not let Tom out of his sight. His gaze passes in and out of attentiveness as he stands idly in the entrance hall.

“Do you think Dumbledore will be able to do something about the changes?” Tom asks.

Harry looks up, pulled from his preoccupations. “What?” Harry asks. “I mean, sorry. I did hear what you said.” He runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the messy locks. “I think he’ll be able to give me some answers. Or at least reassure me that things aren’t going horribly wrong. I knew there would be changes but this—this is _so much._ ”

“People are missing,” Tom says, solemn. “It is concerning. Malfoy should have taken it more seriously.”

“He should have,” Harry grouses, shaking his head. Then his eyes shift back to Tom, blinking slowly. “There’s nothing to be done now, anyways,” he adds, the frantic edge of his tone now muted.

Tom nods, smiles pleasantly. “We’ll simply have to wait and see, won’t we?”

* * *

The next day, Tom wakes to an empty house and a note on the kitchen counter.

Harry had woken early and gone out to meet Dumbledore. Tom crumples the note and tosses it. He makes toast for breakfast. Afterwards, he paces the kitchen, waiting for Harry to return.

Harry and Dumbledore will be talking about the changes wrought upon the timeline. Though all of this world is new to Tom, the differences must be jarring for Harry, who has had some of the people in his life simply blotted out of existence.

Tom assumes they’ll also be talking about him, but he has faith he can guilt Harry into telling him about that portion of the conversation.

It’s a surprise when Harry comes back steaming mad, his face set into a dark glower as he stomps into the house, tossing his cloak onto the rack with a violent motion.

Tom bites down his impulsive ‘what happened?’ and asks, “Are you alright?”

Harry’s head swivels. “Oh. Um, yeah? I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Tom.”

“You seem upset. Did you want to talk about it?”

“No,” says Harry, too quickly. Then he pauses, the anger on his face already softened by Tom’s concern, and adds, “I’m just irritated. It’ll pass.”

“Sure,” Tom says. “I imagine this situation is very stressful for you.”

“It sure is,” Harry mutters. Then he blinks. “It’s not your fault, though.”

The statement sits funny in Tom’s gut. Harry and the others had chosen to do this, to pull Tom from his time period and bring him here. It’s _not_ his fault, so why does he feel like it must be? Shacklebolt and Tonks are gone, but Tom doesn’t care about them. It is not his fault they’re missing.

“You’re worried about the two that disappeared,” Tom states.

“Yes,” Harry says. “But that’s not what—” He cuts off, mouth snapping shut. “Nevermind.”

“Let’s have lunch,” Tom suggests. “It’ll help take your mind off of it.”

Harry’s eyes soften further, the last of those tight lines fading away. “I do want to trust you. Even if other people don’t.”

Tom presses his lips together, conflicted. Then he says, “You can trust me, Harry. We’re not so different, you and I.”

Harry blinks again, momentary confusion visible in his sudden frown. “You think so?” Harry asks.

Tom shrugs. There are many parallels he could draw, but he doesn’t feel like going over them. The adults at the orphanage hadn’t liked magic either. Although that was more because they thought he was an irredeemable delinquent than because they were intolerant.

Harry licks his lips, seems to consider his next words with care. “I’ll tell you some things,” he says, decisive. “But later, after we have lunch and tend to the chickens.”

Tom suppresses a wild grin, tries to still the sudden increase in his heart rate.

“Of course,” Tom says, holding his voice steady, keeping his smile in place. “Whenever you’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will probably be an interlude from harry's pov. if you've been wondering why harry is the way he is, where the differences lay in this universe's timeline, etc., then all questions should hopefully be answered there.
> 
> thanks for reading.


	5. Interlude: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Hogwarts, when Harry had lived in his cupboard, ignorant of his magic and his heritage, he had often imagined the earth-shattering footfalls of the Dursleys as bombs falling on the stairs above his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Tom and Harry are now used to each other, almost friendly. Tonks comes by to visit Tom and Harry periodically, brings more letters from the outside. Tom grows suspicious of the way Tonks acts around him. He tries to pry more information out of Harry, who reluctantly tells Tom that he is the Heir of Slytherin. 
> 
> Next time, Lucius Malfoy arrives in place of Tonks. Anxious over this new change, Harry demands to see Dumbledore. Harry comes back from his conversation with Dumbledore very upset, then tells Tom that he's now willing to share more information.

Harry rises to his alarm well before the sun is up. He dresses quickly, donning extra layers to fend of the cold morning air. He’s to meet Dumbledore in the field just outside the front of the house.

Tom is still fast asleep in his room. 

Tom is more of a night owl, Harry knows. Though nothing in the house is ever obviously out of place, Harry can tell when the back door’s been opened, and when the blanket on his rocking chair has been adjusted, however slightly.

Tom needs his space, much like a cat, much like Crookshanks does. 

The thought of Tom and Crookshanks in a room together brings a smile to Harry’s lips. The two would get along famously if they didn’t end up trying to murder each other. A meeting for the future, perhaps.

Harry creeps out of his bedroom and down the stairs. He’d prepared a note last night for Tom. He’ll place it on the kitchen counter before he goes.

Harry hits the bottom of the stairs with a light thud and checks his watch. Plenty of time for a bite to eat. Although, maybe that’s not the best idea at the moment. His stomach is churning with nerves, which is odd because his scheduled conversation with Dumbledore is supposed to help fix that. Dumbledore is supposed to reassure him that everything is fine.

The kitchen is as clean as it had been on the day they’d moved in. Harry leaves his note on the counter and pours himself a glass of water for breakfast.

He’s used to going without meals. He and Tom will have to think about rationing eventually, so he might as well start now.

Harry drains his glass and rinses it in the sink before placing it on the rack to dry. Time to go.

* * *

The sun is peeking over the horizon as Harry exits the house. Harry squints in the direction of the light and shuts the front door softly behind him.

Harry treads out to the center of the field, where a patch of grass has been flattened out. He waits, holding still, breath straining in his chest. Then, quietly, slowly, his magic begins to gather. A gentle tingle spreads over the backs of his hands, ruffling his hair.

Harry feels for the gap, for the spaces in the netting that exist only on a metaphysical level, and _pulls._

The magic swirls, bends to his will, the rush of it coursing through his veins as Harry steps back, unthinking, and watches the regal form of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore pop into existence in front of him.

“Sir,” Harry says. There’s an odd throb in the back of his head that hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t expected his magic to drain so much.

“Harry, my boy.” Dumbledore smiles, eyes bright. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

Harry falls into step next to his mentor. They trace a path towards the woods, Harry with his hands in his pockets, Dumbledore with his arms swinging loosely by his sides.

“Now, what did you wish to talk about?”

Harry’s not sure where to begin, but he has to start _somewhere._ “I suppose I’ll start at the beginning,” Harry says.

The story unwinds from there: meeting Tom at Wool’s, transporting him to the future, and introducing him to Kingsley. Their argument and their fight. Kingsley being replaced by Tonks, and later with Lucius Malfoy. The weeks in between and the weeks following. 

Harry had avoided using names after Kingsley’s disappearance, concerned that the accidental slip of identity had been what led to the Auror’s demise. 

Only Tonks had vanished, too, and Harry had never talked about her specifically. 

It’s absurd to think of Tom killing these people simply because Harry had brought them up. 

Dumbledore listens attentively, never interrupting, only making a noise here and there as Harry explains his concerns. While Harry talks, Dumbledore’s expression grows pensive, then worried, then grave.

“I’d like to ask you to list as many names as you can remember.”

“Names?” Harry asks.

“Your classmates and professors. Their parents and relatives. The authors of your textbooks. As many as you can recall, if you please.”

Harry does so, listing name after name, continuing to wrack his brain in the face of Dumbledore’s patient expression. And then, when he can name no more, he presses his lips together; the nerves from earlier this morning are sinking back into his stomach.

“So what do you think, sir?”

Dumbledore stops in place, staring at a spot off in the distance. Harry follows the line of sight, but there’s nothing there. Only the trees beyond the field and the brilliant, rising sun.

“Sir?” Harry repeats.

“I fear I may have made a mistake, Harry.”

Harry feels a chill pass down his spine. “A mistake?”

Dumbledore turns to face him, pale blue eyes unnaturally bright. “Perhaps saving Tom Riddle was not the wisest course of action after all.”

* * *

When Harry was eleven years old, Lord Voldemort attempted to steal Philosopher’s Stone.

Harry and his friends told Professor McGonagall that they thought _Snape_ was trying to steal it, and Professor McGonagall told them that she would handle it, that such matters were not the responsibility of children.

Hermione had been utterly relieved. Ron had been reassured. Harry had been… not quite placated. He wanted to know what would become of Snape. He wanted to if Professor McGonagall had a plan, and if she would tell Headmaster Dumbledore or not.

But everyone around him had been ready and willing to lay the matter to rest, and so Harry did his best to push the troubles from his mind, tried to avoid invoking Snape’s ire during Potions class.

At the end of the year, Professor Quirrell died in the third-floor corridor. This was the story told to all the students of Hogwarts. Only Harry, Ron, and Hermione had known the truth, that Quirrell must have died in his attempt to retrieve the Philosopher’s Stone.

Headmaster Dumbledore requested for Harry to come to his office. It was then that Dumbledore laid out the sordid tale of a man possessed and cursed, forced to subsist on unicorn blood, host to the spirit of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

Harry found the entire matter fantastical, almost absurd, but it was hardly the strangest thing he had been told since he’d learned he was a wizard. Lord Voldemort was a villain, plain and simple, and Harry would be the hero of the story, brave and compassionate as all heroes were.

Dumbledore sent Harry on his way with a box of Bertie’s Every Flavour Beans and a few encouraging words about the power of love. Harry remained unconvinced.

A man had died. Didn’t that mean anything?

At the End-of-Year Feast, Gryffindor was awarded a hundred and sixty points for informing Professor McGonagall of the danger posed to the Stone. 

It was the first time the House Cup had tied in over five centuries.

* * *

“But, sir,” Harry says, hesitation present in his voice. “Do you think Tom has something to do with all these people who are disappearing? How can he, if he’s been with me this whole time?”

Dumbledore’s spectacles glint in the dim light of early morning as he regards Harry with an impassive expression. Harry gets the impression that Dumbledore is deciding how much to tell him.

“As you know,” Dumbledore begins, “the changes to our timeline are neither instantaneous nor permanent. They are merely stepping stones that lead to the point at which the wards will break, and then your internment will end. As of this moment, if Mr. Riddle was to be sent back to his own time period, his actions would lead to the deaths of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks.”

“Right,” Harry says. “So that means once this is all over, once everything is fixed and the way it should be, Kingsley and Tonks should come back.” A cold horror spikes within him. “They _will_ come back, won’t they? Professor?”

“The longer young Mr. Riddle remains in your care, Harry, the more information he will be armed with. No matter how diligent we have been, it appears that we have not exercised enough caution to prevent the damage we have sought to undo.”

Harry mulls over this. “But Tom doesn’t know any of them, really. Why would he—why would he go after them?” 

Harry can’t quite bring himself to say the word _kill._ He can’t imagine Tom killing anyone. Hurt them, maybe. But murder is leaps and bounds away from that. To take someone’s life… Tom isn’t there yet. He is not the cold-blooded murderer who had taken the lives of Lily and James Potter. 

Tom Riddle is only a boy. Thirteen years old and afraid of dying.

“Darkness lives inside of Mr. Riddle,” says Dumbledore. “While he may appear to you as a peer, as a fellow student, you must remember that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.”

* * *

Harry’s second year at Hogwarts was utterly uneventful save for his unveiled ability to speak Parseltongue, and the delivery of a rather embarrassing Valentine’s Day card from Ginny Weasley.

The excitement of Parseltongue faded to the thrill of a cheap parlour trick within the span of a few weeks, which was when its novelty was subsumed by the next Quidditch match of the school year.

Ron, on the other hand, made fun of both him and Ginny for months.

In June, a reporter named Rita Skeeter ran a story in the Daily Prophet on how Lockhart was a fraud. 

Upon reading the entire sordid article, Harry wondered if the magical world was just as backwards as the Muggle one, or if adults in charge of a school, _any_ school, simply didn’t know better.

* * *

“He’s not Lord Voldemort yet,” Harry says to Dumbledore. 

He feels compelled to defend Tom, who is nothing like the monster who haunts his nightmares, not at all like the pale face and the bone-white wand that stared him down in a graveyard less than five months ago.

“I had hope that we could change him,” Dumbledore says gently. “But you must see now that our efforts have failed. The loss of Kingsley and Tonks are a testimony to this very fact.”

Harry fails to make the connection between Tom and Voldemort. “Tom wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“Do you really believe this, Harry? You are as pure of heart as you are brave, and you must know, deep down, the capacity for evil which exists within Tom Riddle.”

Harry wonders if the differences in the timeline have changed Dumbledore, too, for the Headmaster to be saying these things. 

This is not the professor who had pulled Harry aside after Cedric Diggory’s death and informed him that he would be welcome to spend the summer at Hogwarts. This is not the professor who had preached kindness and forgiveness for a poor, abandoned orphan who had grown up in the midst of a horrible war.

“People can change,” Harry says. “Tom’s changed since I’ve gotten to know him.”

“Wiser, cleverer wizards than you have been taken in by Lord Voldemort. Do you not recall the fate which befell young Miss Weasley?”

Harry does not, and this must show on his face because Dumbledore’s gaze sharpens further, the blue of his eyes hardening to ice.

“I see. Then I’m afraid I must be the bearer of further bad news. Though you tried valiantly to save her, young Ginny Weasley died in the Chamber of Secrets in your second year of Hogwarts, another victim to the Basilisk, another death committed by the hand of Voldemort.”

Harry feels dizzy, his vision swimming in a blur of blues and greens. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle, bright as stars, and Harry drops his gaze to the ground.

The statement swirls in his head, real but not real. 

_Ginny is dead._

Ginny is dead, murdered by Voldemort. 

Ginny is Ron’s little sister, tiny and red-headed and as fierce as any of her brothers. 

Ginny _can’t_ be dead.

Harry sucks in a large gulp of cold morning air and says, “But how? Did he come back sooner? In—in my timeline, he doesn’t come back until my fourth year—”

Dumbledore raises a hand, stalling Harry’s panicked spiel. “Perhaps it is best for us to leave this to mystery. No doubt should any of this reach young Mr. Riddle’s ears, we would all suffer the consequences.”

Harry’s mouth clamps shut. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t believe Dumbledore is telling him the truth.

* * *

The summer of his third year, Harry encountered a large, black dog.

This dog, he would later discover, was his godfather, Sirius Black. 

But before that, Harry would learn of Dementors, of Patronuses, of the man who betrayed his parents. He would learn the lies adults would tell as they tried to protect him from the truth.

Harry would learn of Time-Turners, of lives saved and lives lost, and he would meet the only remaining family he had left in the world:

A man who understood what it meant to be unwanted and alone just as much as Harry did.

Sirius was everything Harry had wanted in a guardian. Sirius was what Harry had imagined during those gloomy, lonely nights locked in his cupboard, those days before Hogwarts, when all Harry had wished for was for someone to take him away from the Dursleys.

Sirius had promised that someday, when he was a free man, he and Harry would live together.

And Harry, who had doubted many adults during his childhood—the Dursleys, Aunt Marge, his ignorant Muggle school teachers—trusted that Sirius was telling the truth.

Because Sirius was his godfather, his parents’ friend. Sirius was family, real family. Family chosen, not family given.

Harry had conquered Dementors for Sirius, and he would do so again, a thousand times, to bring even the smallest of smiles to that tired, haunted face.

It was only half a day later, when Harry woke in the Hospital Wing after passing out from exhaustion in the cot next to Ron and Hermione, that Harry had time to think about the situation.

The panic had receded and the adrenaline was long gone. Harry gazed upon his sleeping friends—Ron’s leg wrapped in bandages, Hermione’s frizzy hair matted with dried sweat and dirt—and reflected on innocence. 

The meaning of innocence, who had it and who didn’t, and how easily it could be taken away.

Harry imagined what it would feel like to have his soul pulled out of his body, to have pieces of himself ripped away repeatedly until all that remained was an empty, hollow shell. 

Harry imagined what it would feel like to die.

He hoped that it was still too soon for him to find out.

* * *

Dumbledore begins to walk again. Harry follows at a slower pace, uneasy and suspicious.

“Sir?” Harry asks, when a minute has gone by. “What do you plan to do now?”

“Our options are clear,” says Dumbledore. “Either we continue our current course of action, or we send Voldemort back to his time.”

“But if we send him back…” Harry tries to follow the threads of logic, tracing them to their inevitable conclusion. “Will he still become Voldemort?”

“Based on the evidence we have, I would say it is very likely so.”

Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. “So you _are_ going to send him back?”

“I believe it is the best choice for everyone involved.” Dumbledore smiles wistfully, grandfatherly and gentle as he gazes upon Harry with a patient expression. “You have expended a great effort, my boy. Do not mistake this failure as a measure of your personal worth! Some natures cannot be changed, and Lord Voldemort’s remains unforgiving, even in the face of mercy.” 

Harry thinks about his first interaction with Tom at Wool’s Orphanage. Though Tom had been irascible and snarky, there was a layer of fear beneath the irritable exterior. Harry had read that fear in Tom’s eyes, had recognized a quiet terror that shook to the core.

And why wouldn’t Tom be terrified, when World War II was happening around him?

Harry, who had once faced death in a graveyard, who could have died young so many times over, understands Tom’s struggle. 

There is nothing wrong with being afraid to die, with wanting to avoid it at any cost. Tom had grown up lonely and unwanted, clinging to aspirations of power, to ambitions that could only be achieved if he lived long enough to see them through.

Albus Dumbledore is too far removed from youth to truly understand what it feels like to be small and afraid, wand in hand, death lurking around the corner.

* * *

When his name emerged from the Goblet of Fire, Harry knew it was not an accident.

The first task was _dragons._ Harry did not doubt that his name was put in there with the hope that he would die.

His friends helped him with spells, scouring books from the library late into the night. Harry had never been more grateful for them, for their support, especially as the school turned on him with judgemental eyes.

Harry met with Sirius when he could, and when he could not, he worried over his godfather’s safety. It had to be dangerous for Sirius to be so near the school, so close to public areas, yet he did so anyways. He was risking his freedom to see Harry.

Harry knew their frequent meetings were a bad idea, that they would both be better off if he told Sirius to stay far away from Hogwarts. But the selfish part of himself clamped down on that suggestion. Sirius cared about him. That care made Harry’s heart feel so full it hurt.

He would do anything to protect Sirius, and Sirius would do the same for him. That was the loyalty Sirius had held for James and Lily. The loyalty that never wavered. The loyalty that had transferred along to Harry.

Sirius told Harry about how there were plans in motion to defeat Voldemort. Sirius told him not to worry and to focus on surviving the Tournament. It was the most comforting reassurance Harry had heard from an adult in a while.

Someday, when this tournament was done and Voldemort was gone, Sirius would take Harry away from the Dursley’s. Harry had every bit of faith in that truth.

* * *

“How will that work?” Harry asks. “Will we have to repeat the ritual? Or do we just break the wards down?”

“There is a method. It will require work on both sides to accomplish. We must seize the threads of magic, pulling them taut, and then snap them.” Dumbledore’s hand clenches a quick fist to demonstrate, the wrist snapping downwards in an imitation of a sharp yank.

Harry can’t explain the yawning pit in his stomach, the sickness of guilt that swells whenever he thinks too much about Tom. Tom, who is waiting back at home, asleep in bed, unaware that Dumbledore plans to renounce him as a lost cause.

“And will we do that now?”

Dumbledore hums, thoughtful. “It will take some time for me to gather the required elements. A day, shall we say?”

After a second, Harry nods quickly. “Tomorrow,” he confirms. 

The momentary pause does not escape unnoticed. “Do you have more to add, Harry?”

Harry glances at the forest around them, his heart beating fast. Does he have more to add? To argue against Professor Dumbledore seems disrespectful. But Harry is nothing if not a Gryffindor, and so he has to put his thoughts into words, attempting to defend the boy he’s gotten to know over the past month.

“I don’t think Tom’s evil, sir,” Harry says at last, as respectfully as he can. “I think he’s just afraid. He’s just a kid, like me, like you said. He’s never had anyone to look out for him before, and that’s why he thinks he needs to do everything for himself. Because other people won’t bother.”

* * *

On the day of the third task, Lord Voldemort was reborn.

Death had never felt closer than when Harry looked down the length of his trembling wand at that colourless, serpentine face.

Fear was pounding in his head, an endless refrain. The scent of death that pervaded the chilling air of that hideous graveyard was making him dizzy. He had an unspeakable feeling that he might never see the sunlight again.

Then those golden threads appeared, the overwhelming feeling of magic pouring from his wand, surrounding him, connecting his wand to Voldemort’s.

The phantoms appeared one by one.

Cedric. His parents. Others who Harry did not know but mourned all the same. Victims of Voldemort, ghosts of the past, each of them protecting him, Harry Potter, from death.

When Harry eventually landed back in Hogwarts, Cedric’s body limp and cold in his clammy grip, all he could manage was a mindless relief.

* * *

Dumbledore stops them in place, looking over to their right. The edge of the open field is visible a few steps away. Harry shifts his weight to his other foot as he waits for a response.

“Your capacity for empathy is an admirable strength,” says Dumbledore. “And it will serve you well in the future. But I’m afraid I must insist, Harry, that you lack the experience to make this decision.”

Harry wants to retort that Dumbledore doesn’t _really_ know Tom, but then he remembers that Dumbledore had taught Tom Riddle for all seven years of Hogwarts. Still, that’s not quite the same as being friends, is it? Or whatever it is that he and Tom are. Not quite friends, but almost.

“Alright, sir,” Harry says. “If you think so.”

Dumbledore turns to face him fully. “I do. Time is not so easily meddled with. We have taken a great risk in bringing Mr. Riddle here, but now he must be returned to his own time. Your influence, however well-intentioned, has not wrought the impact we had hoped for. 

“Keeping Mr. Riddle here has only brought further damage to the timeline. Should we continue with this path, the changes will be irreversible.”

Harry stuffs his hands into his pockets and stares down at the ground. “But if we send him back, won’t all these changes be permanent?”

“While I am able to pass through the wards, I will be able to Obliviate Mr. Riddle, thereby removing from him the dangerous information which we may assume is responsible for the demise of those who have disappeared from the timeline. Should we delay this decision any longer, to the point where the wards will no longer permit entrance, I fear you and Mr. Riddle will be trapped here with no recourse for his actions.”

No recourse, meaning that Harry will be alone with Tom Riddle until the wards fall, releasing them both into the unknown. 

“If we _can_ make it to the end, to when the wards fall, won’t all of that be undone? Sir?” Harry looks up, hoping for an affirmation.

Dumbledore shakes his head, his long, white beard swaying with the motion. “The risk is too high. We have no guarantee Mr. Riddle will last until the end of your confinement. Should the wards fall too early, alterations to your original timeline will be permanent.

“At this time, the safest option is to revert everything to be as it was before you retrieved Mr. Riddle from his time. With each iteration of the timeline, more lives will be lost. You may never see Kingsley, Miss Tonks, or Miss Weasley again.”

The bluntness stings. Harry’s breath lodges in his throat, and the back of his eyes burning with wetness. With some effort, he swallows the blockage and nods in response. “I understand,” Harry says.

“Then I shall see you tomorrow.”

Albus Dumbledore holds out his hand. 

Harry grasps it, shakes it firmly. “See you then, sir.”

* * *

The summer before his fifth year, Harry was at Hogwarts learning about Tom Riddle.

Professor Dumbledore had something in his office called a Pensieve, an item which could be used to view memories.

Harry watched Tom Riddle grow from childhood to adulthood. And all the while, Dumbledore stood nearby, proving commentary, painting the picture…

Tom Riddle, said Dumbledore, had been birthed from a loveless union and delivered into a hollow facsimile of a home. An orphanage.

Like Harry, Tom had not known his heritage for years, had not known he was a wizard until someone came to tell him.

Tom had spent his summers at the orphanage, just like Harry had spent summers at the Dursleys. Only Tom had never been permitted to stay at Hogwarts.

All the while, Dumbledore and others were hosting secret meetings at Grimmauld Place. They were a group known as the Order of the Phoenix, a group formed to fight the war against Voldemort. Harry was not privy to any of the meetings. This was irritating, especially as his necessary absence was poorly justified by Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley. 

Harry had a task assigned to him—to learn about Voldemort—and this was apparently all he needed to focus on.

It was an important task, surely. But it was not something that allowed Harry to feel productive.

Harry did ask after what the Order was doing, what was so important that Dumbledore had sent both Lupin and Sirius away on a mission for, but the answers were never given to him.

Harry could only wait, frustrated and listless, to see what would happen. 

Halfway through the summer, after ages of hanging about the castle, Dumbledore finally told Harry of the plan.

The plan, which was to remove Tom Riddle from the past, therefore saving countless lives and preventing a war before it had even begun.

The plan, which would give an orphan boy a second chance and a proper home.

Harry, who had witnessed the upbringing of a boy to whom he now felt a good deal of empathy towards, immediately agreed.

* * *

“Wait,” Harry says. He has one more question to ask.

Professor Dumbledore pauses mid-turn, gazing over the tops of his spectacles. “Yes, Harry?”

“Are Lupin and Sirius back yet? I mean—I know I haven’t gotten any letters yet, so they’re probably still abroad—but I was only wondering if you had any news, sir.”

Dumbledore’s brows tug together, the slightest of motions, but it’s enough for Harry to confirm the worst.

“Sir?” Harry repeats, more urgently this time. “Are they alright? You have to tell me—”

Dumbledore draws near, places a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. His face, now calm, looks saddened.

Harry shakes his head. Unwilling. Disbelieving. “No.”

“Harry,” says Dumbledore. “I am sorry—”

“No,” Harry says. Louder, nearly a shout. He wrenches away, twisting his body out from under Dumbledore’s hand. “No, they’re not—he’s not— _Sirius_ —”

His wand is in his hand before he can think better of it. 

No one would have died, no one would have been _erased from existence_ if not for this terrible, awful plan. This plan that Dumbledore now wants to change his mind about because it’s backfired.

“Harry. I understand you are angry with me, and you have every right to be.”

Harry _is_ angry. He’s seeing red, his hands shaking with it, the tremours of his rage rolling down his spine in turbulent waves, unbroken and unhinged.

Harry redirects the emotion through his wand, aims, fires:

_“Reducto!”_

The bush next to them blasts into particles, its ashes splattering across the oak tree behind it.

_“Reducto, Reducto, REDUCTO!”_

The greenery falls to his wand again and again, until Harry can no longer see through his grief, his tears, his awareness barely strong enough to note that Dumbledore is quiet, watching him break down.

“There's no shame in what you're feeling. The fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.”

“This is your fault!” Harry says, seething, the pain bursting inside of him as he whirls in Dumbledore’s direction. “If you hadn’t wanted me to do this, then Sirius would still be alive.”

If he had not agreed to this, Sirius would still be alive. Lupin, Ginny, Kingsley, and Tonks would still be alive. His pain mingles with his shame, stirring itself into a lethal concoction of agony.

Harry can’t imagine losing Sirius. They were supposed to live together someday, to do so many things together once the war was done and Sirius was a free man. And now, now they will never get to do those things.

Harry shudders from head to toe, suddenly sure that he is going to die, right here, from the utter wretchedness that is running through his body, wreaking havoc, straining his heart so badly that he wants to rip it out of his chest.

Dumbledore is _still calm,_ and Harry is sure he has never hated anyone more than in this moment.

“It is very much my fault, Harry. As much fault can be laid at my feet, I would allow it in an instant.” Dumbledore sighs, then, and his shoulders slump a few degrees. “I owe you many explanations, but for this I must take you back many, many years…”

* * *

Before Hogwarts, when Harry had lived in his cupboard, ignorant of his magic and his heritage, he had often imagined the earth-shattering footfalls of the Dursleys as bombs falling on the stairs above his head.

Harry had marched his little line of broken toy soldiers, wondering and wondering, hoping that his plastic protectors would shield him from the worst of what was to come.

After Dumbledore told him of the plan, Harry read books on World War II, on bomb shelters and war drafts. It was like discovering a new world for the second time.

* * *

Dumbledore explains himself in slow, measured sentences.

There was a prophecy made years ago by Sybill Trelawney. That prophecy sent Lord Voldemort to the Potters’ doorstep, intent on killing the little boy that lived there.

This prophecy dictates neither can live while the other survives.

Harry needs to know. “Does this mean one of us has to kill the other?”

Dumbledore is somber. “Yes. I am afraid so.”

“But the plan—” Harry pauses. It dawns on him, then, just what the plan must have meant.

Tom Riddle had killed Myrtle Warren at the age of sixteen and created a Horcrux to secure his immortal life.

But this Tom, the Tom that is resting in the house just beyond the field, has no Horcruxes, has committed no crimes. This Tom has as much potential to fulfil the prophecy as Lord Voldemort does, but he is not Voldemort. Not yet.

Harry thinks of what it would mean to kill a thirteen-year-old boy. 

The erasure of a bloody past in exchange for a bloody future. 

It had been bad enough for him to face Voldemort in the graveyard. Harry had not been able to cast the Killing Curse then, had not even thought of using it.

He does not think he could kill Tom now, in cold blood and without a real reason.

“Was I supposed to kill him, when the wards fell?”

Dumbledore’s expression changes at the words— _‘supposed to’_ —but he does not refute Harry’s statement.

“So it was all a lie,” Harry says viciously. “You didn’t want to save him at all. You just—you brought him here to _die._ All because of some stupid prophecy. You’re no better than Voldemort is.”

To Harry’s satisfaction, Dumbledore flinches at the accusation. But the flinch doesn’t linger, and is rapidly replaced by a grim, formidable expression.

“If Tom Riddle was truly turned away from the darkness, away from the path of Voldemort, then the prophecy would not come to pass. While the prophecy lives on, so does Lord Voldemort. In this case, there is a necessity to ensure Voldemort never rises to power.”

Dumbledore emanates an excess of power and authority, so much so that Harry feels the inexperience of his mere fifteen years on earth, incomparable to the ancient wizard before him.

Harry can tell that Dumbledore’s mind is not to be changed. That no matter what Harry argues, no matter how many reasons Harry gives, Dumbledore plans to send Tom back to Wool’s orphanage. Memories wiped, hope taken away.

Dumbledore has lost faith in Tom’s ability to change. He has erred on the sided caution, in favour of securing the lives that exist rather than the ones that could. Dumbledore has chosen Ginny and Tonks and Kingsley over the countless others who could live if only Tom Riddle had grown into a better person.

But Harry still has hope. Harry has one blinding, damning hope.

“If we do this,” Harry says, testing the words one by one, “will I get Sirius back? Will he and Lupin come back with the others?”

“That I cannot say, unfortunately. The events surrounding their deaths may or may not be linked to the timeline you came from.”

“But what were they doing?” Harry asks, fists clenched, sweating, forcing the words out. “How did they die?”

“I’m afraid I cannot say.”

Harry has to tell himself to breathe, to inhale enough air so he can think properly. Dumbledore is staring, his gaze stern and free of any softness they had previously held.

After a second, Harry pulls his gaze away. “Alright. Fine. You can’t say. Then we have nothing to say to each other, Professor.”

“Harry—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. That’s what you want, isn’t it? We’ll send him back.”

Dumbledore is silent this time and does not protest Harry’s rude tone.

“If that’s all,” Harry says, dismissive, “I’d like to be alone now.” He needs to think.

* * *

Some time later, long after Dumbledore is gone, the sun is at a decent height in the sky as Harry returns to the house. Most of his grief has been wrung out of him, and now all that remains is anger at the injustice of it all.

Cedric had already died because of him. Now more people are dead. Kingsley, Tonks, Ginny, Lupin, and Sirius. And how many others that Harry doesn’t even know of? Names that he had listed that Dumbledore pretended to know?

If not for his letters from Ron and Hermione, Harry would have worried for them, too. But they, at least, are safe. For now, anyways.

Harry stomps into the entrance hall and tosses his cloak aside.

“Are you alright?”

Harry’s head snaps up to regard Tom Riddle. His response is automatic: “Oh. Um, yeah? I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Tom.”

He feels like a traitor before the sentence is even finished. Tom is asking after him, being friendly, and Harry has just concluded a meeting on sending Tom back to bombs and terror and war.

“You seem upset. Did you want to talk about it?”

Tom seems genuinely concerned. Harry’s guilt intensifies. “No,” says Harry. “I’m just irritated. It’ll pass.”

“Sure,” Tom says. “I imagine this situation is very stressful for you.”

“It sure is,” Harry mutters. Then he realizes what that sounds like and adds, “It’s not your fault, though.”

It’s not Tom’s fault. It is highly likely that Sirius will still be dead regardless of whether they send Tom back to his time or not. Though Harry cares about the deaths of the others, Sirius’ death is the one that hurts him the most. Just the thought of it numbs him inside.

“You’re worried about the two that disappeared,” Tom says.

“Yes,” Harry says. “But that’s not what—” He cuts off, mouth snapping shut. “Nevermind.”

Tom doesn’t seem bothered by his snappishness. “Let’s have lunch,” Tom suggests. “It’ll help take your mind off of it.”

The unexpected kindness causes Harry’s stomach to twist. Harry’s defense of Tom isn’t wholly unfounded, and here is the proof. Tom can be nice, can be interested in others, if only others take the time to understand him and reach out. 

“I do want to trust you,” Harry says suddenly. “Even if other people don’t.”

Tom presses his lips together, and Harry wonders if he’s gone too far, if Tom’s going to accuse him of lying.

Then Tom says, “You _can_ trust me, Harry. We’re not so different, you and I.”

“You think so?” Harry asks. 

Harry _has_ been thinking that, just a bit, just in the back of his mind. He’s been thinking it ever since Dumbledore gave him Tom Riddle’s life history on a silver platter. They’re not so different, not at all.

Tom shrugs in response.

Harry licks his lips. The glass of water he’d drank this morning seems like years and years ago.

Tom _can_ change, can’t he? 

Tom can change, and then Sirius and Lupin will have never gone on that mission to begin with.

Tom _will_ change, and then the world will change, too, and Harry will have his godfather and his parents back. Everyone will come back.

“I’ll tell you some things,” Harry says. “But later, after we have lunch and tend to the chickens.”

Tom smiles happily, his brown eyes dancing with cheer. Nothing like the red eyes Harry remembers. Nothing like Voldemort.

“Of course,” Tom says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. this chapter took a long time to write out. 
> 
> there is a lot of information here: harry's backstory, resulting character development, and all of the time travel explanation that's only been hinted at thus far. i'm hoping this is all coherent lol.
> 
> if there are parts that are confusing/don't make sense, please ask questions and let me know. that way i can improve on those parts! thank you and happy pride month!


	6. Month One, cont.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the magic starts to congregate, Tom can feel it. The prickling that spreads all over, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He possesses an innate sensitivity to the magical world he had inherited from his mother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a less detailed summary because i am drafting this late at night. i might come back and edit this later.
> 
> previously:
> 
> Harry talks to Dumbledore about his concerns regarding the missing people. Dumbledore becomes concerned about the influence Tom is having on Harry. He warns Harry not to trust Tom. Harry doesn't believe him. Harry considers himself and Tom to be friends. 
> 
> Harry's backstory reveals a different version of canon. We learn that Harry spent the past summer learning about Tom Riddle, and now he truly believes that Tom can become a good person.
> 
> Then Dumbledore tells Harry that Sirius is dead, and this is what tips Harry over into siding with Tom over Dumbledore.

Once the chickens are fed, Harry leads Tom back into the house to grab a blanket and some snack foods. From there, they take a walk out towards the field across from the house.

“Did you want to talk about what Dumbledore said?” Tom asks.

“I’ll get to that,” Harry says, evasive.

Perhaps Harry hasn’t figured out what he wants to say yet. That’s fine. All the better if Tom can convince him to overshare.

They reach a spot in the field where the grass flattens out. Tom recognizes it, as they’ve walked out this way a few times before. Harry sets the large blue blanket down and sits on top of it. 

Tom follows without hesitation, knowing it will make Harry more comfortable if he doesn’t complain. Next, Harry opens his satchel bag and hands Tom an apple. Tom accepts it but makes no move to eat it. He merely rolls the fruit around in his hand, waiting.

Harry stares at the sky, his eyes tracing the clouds above. Blue touching green.

“Dumbledore told me that my godfather is dead.”

For a second, Tom is rendered speechless. The remark is unexpected. But he recovers quickly enough to respond appropriately.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tom says. “That must be very difficult for you. Since you can’t leave here and everything.” 

“Yeah.” Harry ruffles his hair with a free hand. “I haven’t seen him in a while, actually.”

Tom thinks over his next question carefully, then decides it can’t possibly hurt to ask. “If you have a godfather, why were you staying with those Muggles?”

Harry’s eyes sadden, misty and distant. “He was in Azkaban for a long time. He was innocent, though,” Harry says. “Someone framed him.”

Tom’s framework for social niceties doesn’t extend to responding about someone’s wrongfully convicted godfather. “But he got free?” Tom asks.

“He escaped two years ago.”

“Clever of him,” Tom says. “No one’s done that before. At least,” he adds, “not during my time.”

Harry picks at the fabric pilling on the blanket. “He was my only real family. I can’t believe he’s really gone. We were going to live together someday.”

Tom doesn’t have any family at all to live with. The idea of losing a family he does not have is foreign to him.

“You’re a strong person,” Tom says slowly. “It’s sad that he’s gone, but you don’t need him, or those Muggles you lived with. You’ve left them now, and you’re living here with me. And we can take care of ourselves.”

“I suppose.”

“What else did Dumbledore say?”

Harry bunches his knees up under his arms and sighs. 

Sometimes Tom forgets that Harry is older than him by two years. Harry maintains an air of innocence, a certain guilelessness that Tom knows isn’t a true representative of who Harry is. But it’s small moments like these that betray the soft heart lurking in Harry’s chest. Harry can be fierce, can duel like he was born to do it, but he also bleeds emotions like a leaky tap.

“He doesn’t think the plan is working,” says Harry. Then he presses his lips together, face paling, like he’s already said more than he’d wanted to.

“What do you mean?” Tom demands. “Is there something wrong with the wards?” The apple in his hand drops down, rolling across the blanket to bump against Harry’s knees. 

Tom’s mind jumps from one disastrous conclusion to the next. The wards will collapse, killing them both. The wards will fail, ejecting Tom from this time period, sending him back to the 1940s to die.

“There’s nothing wrong with the wards,” Harry says, alarmed. 

The surprise is genuine, Tom decides. Harry isn’t lying about that.

“Then what’s wrong?” Tom asks.

Harry fidgets, avoiding Tom’s gaze. Impatience rises in Tom; he has never been good at withholding his curiosity, his need for dominance. And with this matter, a matter that concerns his _life,_ he has no reason to hold back.

“Spit it out,” Tom says harshly. “What is it?”

Harry’s mouth twists, his brows knitting together. He is deep in thought. Concocting a lie? Deciding what half-truths to tell?

“Tell me,” Tom demands, louder now. “Harry, you must. Am I going to die? You promised me I wouldn’t—you said—we’re supposed to be _safe here.”_ He reaches over to grab the older boy by the shoulders, pinching with his fingers, shoving hard.

Harry jerks at the violent touch, but he does not pull away completely. “Tom,” protests Harry, eyes wide and dazed with shock. “Tom, I wouldn’t—”

“Then tell me,” Tom repeats, almost in a hiss, his hand digging into the flesh of Harry’s arm, squeezing enough to bruise.

“You won’t die,” Harry says vehemently. Though Harry seems shaken, this statement is firm, full of conviction. “I would never let that happen to you.”

Tom’s grip slackens, his hand struck with a sudden weakness that causes his arms to drop away. Tom swallows thickly. His throat feels dry, scratchy, and hoarse. It takes him a second to speak. “Yes,” Tom says. “Good. So what is it?”

“Dumbledore says that if we send you back, all the missing people will come back as well.”

Tom has never liked Dumbledore, but the betrayal still twists sharply in his gut, like the serrated edge of a blade marking up his insides. If he could, if he was given the option, he would kill the old man right now. What right did Dumbledore have to play god? To pretend like the lives of others had more value than Tom’s?

Tom thinks through the rest of the statement, then narrows his eyes. “People like your godfather?”

Harry’s mouth contorts into a frown. “No. Sirius died for other reasons.”

The name ‘Sirius’ stirs a memory in Tom’s mind. The Blacks have always named their children after celestial bodies, after constellations and stars. Alphard, Cygnus, Orion, Walburga. Harry’s godfather must be a Black.

But back to the conversation at hand: Harry wouldn’t be so upset if there was a way to save his precious godfather. No doubt if it were possible to exchange Tom’s life for Sirius’, Harry would do so. But this is not the case, Tom tells himself. This is why Harry has chosen to align with Tom rather than Dumbledore.

Harry cannot save his godfather, so he will save Tom instead, even at the cost of others’ lives. This is an outcome better than expected. Tom decides that Harry is already proving his use as a good ally.

“Well,” says Tom, lacing his words with deliberate hesitancy. “What do you think we should do now?”

* * *

The new plan, Harry says, is to meet Dumbledore tomorrow morning, as promised, but not let him through. To remove the wards will take effort on both sides. Harry doesn’t plan to comply, and so he believes it will all be fine. 

Tom is less sure, but he is willing to accept Harry’s reassurances that Dumbledore will not pass through the wards and force their hand.

“How do the wards decide who to let in?” Tom asks.

They’re in the kitchen preparing dinner. Tom is minding the pot of pasta currently cooking on the stove top while Harry sets the table.

“Dumbledore can pass through because he's magically powerful enough,” Harry says. “Kingsley managed at the start for the same reason. This morning, though, I had to help pull Dumbledore through. That’s why I think he won’t be able to come through tomorrow unless I let him. And soon the wards will be too powerful for anyone to get through. Then we’ll be kept in here until the timeline is finished changing, like I said.”

“But what of the others? The woman and Malfoy. They were able to visit without help.”

“Tonks was always supposed to come by for visits. The wards are tied to me, and she’s related to the Potters through her mother’s family. So she can come through.” Harry runs a hand through his hair, then adds, “And Malfoy, too. But it doesn’t work as well for him because his relation is by marriage. At least,” Harry adds, frowning, “that’s how it’s supposed to work.”

Tom casts his mind back to the day Malfoy had arrived at the house. Altercation aside, Malfoy did not seem unfamiliar to his surroundings. He’d settled into the living room with ease, and he’d spoken as though the visit was routine and the negative reaction was expected.

Given what he’s seen so far, Tom assumes that the changes to the timeline are not immediate. Rather, things will build for a time, and then the changes come all at once. Otherwise people would simply vanish in the middle of their conversations rather than only after they’d left the wards. Or, alternatively, when people were inside the wards, their presence could not be altered?

Tom gives the pot on the stove a swirl, then decides he may as well ask.

“How do the changes to the timeline work?”

Harry walks over and switches the element off. “Let’s get this plated, first.”

Tom obliges. They portion out the pasta and dump tomato sauce onto it. Before coming here, the only decent food Tom had ever eaten was at Hogwarts. He’d grown used to the meals prepared by House-Elves. Here, however, meals are different. Harry has his own style of cooking that is unique in its own way, even with simple dishes—an interesting blend of spices and sauce that is delicious.

“Smells nice,” Tom allows.

Harry grins. “Yeah? Thanks.”

Tom grabs his plate and follows Harry over to the wooden table, where they settle into their respective wooden chairs. 

“Okay,” Harry says, cracking his knuckles. “You probably have figured some of this out already, but I’ll try to explain it in a way that makes sense.”

Harry talks all throughout dinner, gesticulating in the air to make his various points. It is as Tom had surmised: time is not as fluid as one might imagine it to be. As Tom’s presence (or lack thereof) in the past alters the future, the ripples of impact roll forward in waves. 

Changes are not immediate. Changes are not permanent. When the wards fall, they will awake to a brand new world.

“Will you still be born?” Tom asks curiously. “What if my not being there in the past impacts your life? It’s already made changes to the lives of others, to people I don’t even know.”

Harry shifts back in his chair, a slight frown marring his face. “This method of time travel is based mostly in theory. There isn’t much anecdotal evidence. A lot of things have to come together in order for it to work. Dumbledore said that no matter what happens, you and I will emerge regardless. Because we’re tied together.”

Tied together. Previously the thought of being linked to Potter had disgusted him. But Tom now finds the idea more palatable. 

Speaking of connections, this also reminds him of something else.

“Does it have to do with the _Priori Incantatem?”_ Tom asks. “Is that why our wands react like that?”

“I—maybe? Our wands have the same phoenix core. They’re what Ollivander calls brother wands.”

“Brother wands,” Tom repeats.

They eat without speaking while Tom mulls over the information. Their wands are compatible. Tom doesn’t know much about wandlore, but he does know that wands are connected to their owners. Wands are a representation of their magical abilities. Tom had taken the time to research yew wands and their owners, searching for confirmation that his wand was as unique as he thought himself to be.

Yew wands have a reputation for belonging to notable figures in history. Only the fearsome and powerful own such wands. Tom had been satisfied with this explanation, and here in front of him lies another proof: his wand shares a core with this green-eyed boy from fifty years in the future.

For all that Tom has believed himself to be destined for greatness, the physical evidence never fails to amaze him.

Tom had felt an affinity towards Slytherin house long before Harry had told him he was the heir of Salazar Slytherin. He had known that Slytherin was where he was meant to be, where he would grow into his own. If only his housemates could see him now—the Heir of Slytherin—they would bow and scrape at his feet, dying to worship his lineage.

The sound of the metal clinking pulls Tom back into the present. Harry has set his utensils down upon his empty plate. 

“Are you not hungry?” Harry asks.

“Just distracted.” Tom stabs at some pasta with his fork and eats it. He chews, then swallows, then says, “You and I _are_ very similar, aren’t we?”

Their wand cores, their lack of parents. Their shared ability to speak to snakes.

Harry has all the reasons to be as angry as Tom is, to want _more,_ and yet Harry directs his ambitions towards saving lives. A lofty goal, surely, but not one Tom would ever see himself choosing.

Harry shrugs and stands. “I’m going to wash my plate.”

Tom notices that Harry isn’t looking at him. “Don’t be stupid,” Tom says, before Harry can step away. “I’ll do the washing up. Just wait for me to finish.”

Harry sits back down.

“We’re friends now, right?” Tom affects a casual air, poking at his dinner.

“Yeah,” says Harry. “We’re friends.”

“And we’re… different. Which is why we’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“You can speak to snakes,” Tom points out. “Like I do.”

“I—” Harry rubs at the back of his neck. “I’m not the heir like you are or anything. I’m just—I’m just Harry Potter.”

“You’re not,” Tom says, dismissive. “You’re not just anything. You want to save me, unlike Dumbledore. You’re better than he is.”

Harry seems to want to say something in response, then thinks better of it. He turns his eyes to the glass panes, to the backyard. Tom can spot the hint of flush in those tan cheeks; his compliment does more than Harry is willing to let on.

“I won’t abandon you,” Harry says eventually. “I did promise that.”

“Oh, I know,” Tom says, nodding. “We will face this together, Harry.”

Harry glances back over, smiling and nodding in response. There is a definite warmth in Harry’s expression. Warmth that stirs comfort in Tom’s gut. They will face Dumbledore together, and they will triumph.

* * *

They rise before the sun the next morning. Harry is apparently too nervous to eat, but Tom convinces him to have some fruit.

“You’ll need your strength,” Tom advises. “Just in case.”

In case of what, Harry does not ask. They both know what Tom is referring to. In spite of all Harry’s assurances, the impending meeting hangs over both their heads like a guillotine.

Tom is not afraid of Dumbledore. If only Tom was older, if he knew more spells—then the old man would fear _him._

After the tense affair of an early breakfast, Harry paces the front hall while Tom dons his cloak, taking his time to adjust the folds so that it falls properly over his shoulders.

“You’ll wear a hole into the floor,” Tom says.

Harry stops, startled, and looks up. “That’s a joke.”

Tom adjusts the collar of his shirt in the mirror. “Clever of you to have noticed. Let’s go, then.”

Harry holds the door for him. Tom strides through, then squints out at where the sun is just visible over the horizon. Somewhere beyond this place, Dumbledore is waiting for them.

They walk out to the field, to the place where the grass flattens out in a large, circular patch. Here, then. Tom eyes the ground, then the trees in the near distance, then the cloudy skies.

_“Tempus.”_ Harry eyes the time, which is now nearing the hour. “Any moment now.”

Tom draws his wand. Harry stares at it, but he doesn’t tell Tom to put it away. The tension in the air is now grim, thick with the unknown. They stand together for some time, the seconds slow like syrup, and then Harry draws his wand as well.

When the magic starts to congregate, Tom can _feel_ it. The prickling that spreads all over, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He possesses an innate sensitivity to the magical world he had inherited from his mother. 

Harry’s eyes are unfocused, his hair in disarray. From where Tom stands, the break of day bathes Harry’s face in a golden glow. Pressure builds around them, buffeting him and Harry on all sides. Wind beats against Tom’s heavy wool cloak in sweeping pulses, the magic breathing to life through nature.

“I can feel him trying to push through,” Harry says, eyes sliding shut. “The barrier is strong today.”

Tom holds his breath for a second, then asks, “So he won’t be able to pass through?”

Harry’s head twitches, canting to the side, listening to a cue that is inaudible to Tom’s ears. “I don’t know—he’s still trying. There’s pressure on the wards, but the layers are thick. It feels more muffled than usual.”

“Can he tell that you’re not letting him in?”

  
  
“I—I really don’t know, Tom.” 

Harry sounds strained, so Tom decides to cease his line of questioning. It won’t do for Harry to slip up and let Dumbledore through.

The magic does not fade from the air. Tom flexes his fingers around his yew wand, tense and alert, watching the equally-tense form of Harry standing a few steps away.

“I feel—” Harry starts, then cuts off abruptly, green eyes widening.

The wind swirls violently, a flock of angry, animated knives, whipping the folds of Tom’s robes around. Invisible hands are wrapped around his limbs, squeezing down on the joints.

“Harry,” Tom says, a warning, trying to smother the sudden unease in his chest.

The air in front of them _distorts._

Tom blinks once, twice. What he is witnessing doesn’t sink in, not right away. The empty space is blurry but not quite. His eyes slip around the gap, failing to lock on.

“Wait, I—” Harry stutters. “I can’t—”

The air shifts, perceptibly so, a faint warble in the fabric of the universe. 

Tom raises his wand, forcing his arm up despite the discomfort, prepared to cast something, _anything,_ to cease the horrific sensations crawling up and down his spine.

Then the universe _opens._

Harry speaks, or maybe he screams. Tom can no longer hear anything—all his senses have been devoured by the blatant, gaping hole in front of them. Thin threads spread through the open space like gossamer vines, creeping and crawling in strange patterns.

Tom jerks back without conscious thought; the sight of the opening is abhorrent, is _wrong._ It goes against everything he is, was, or will be.

The split yawns, widening, revealing not a figure, but a blurry golden shape that glimmers with the same gossamer, these threads finer still, wound loosely in wavy patterns that hurt to look at. The shape bulges like someone is pressing against the shell from the other side.

The other side, Tom realizes, which is where Dumbledore must be.

Tom turns to Harry, who has been motionless all this time, transfixed with the same horror that Tom feels crushing down upon his chest, worming spindly fingers between his ribs.

“What do we do?” Tom yells, hoping that his voice will carry across the space between them.

Harry shudders, twisting his head in an aborted shake, wand held in a tight grip.

If Harry won’t do anything, fine. Tom will do something.

_“Depulso!”_

The Banishing Charm goes wide. Tom grits his teeth, adjusting his aim to account for the _whatever_ that is distorting the path of his magic, and casts again. And again. And again.

Some of the spells land—the rippling gap flickers, swallowing Tom’s magic up like a shimmering _Protego_ shield.

_“Depulso!”_ Harry’s cry sends a jolt down Tom’s wand arm, a wash of magic that tingles all the way to his fingertips.

Harry’s eyes are alight with a fierce expression, blazing with green and gold reflected from the obscenities leaking out of the air before them. His hair, windswept, trails in dark tendrils, the silhouette of an avenging angel.

_“Depulso! Depulso!”_ Tom flings the spell repeatedly, but the magic soaks into the warped shape, which only shudders at the assault.

“It’s not working,” Harry says, desperate. “Tom, it’s not—”

Tom does not accept this. “Again,” he hisses, rage and desperation boiling thick in his veins, in his throat, choking the sounds of fear that he refuses to let out.

Harry shivers, a wave of magic trembling around him. Is it a trick of the light? An effect of the unnatural magic they are interacting with?

Tom shakes himself from his distraction and aims his wand at the opening once more. _“Depulso!”_

The spellfire blasts up against the opening, shoving at that which is attempting to push through. Harry fires again, and Tom feels that same rush crawl down his arm and down his wand.

So Tom stops, waits, and then next time Harry raises his wand to cast, Tom does the same—

_“DEPULSO!”_

The spell _floods_ forth from his wand, from Harry’s wand. Tom’s fingers nearly slacken out of shock; it is only the freezing air that keeps his hand stiff around the wood.

The Banishing Charm slams into the hole in the universe with a screeching that grates on Tom’s ears.

Tom squints past the discomfort of the distortion and sees that _yes,_ their combined effort is working!

The rest passes in a strange blur—

He and Harry fall into a pattern of casting. A blast of magic, a brief pause, and then another casting. Tom’s magic does not drain, his mind feels no fatigue. 

When he casts with Harry, it is laughably easy; Tom feels free, weightless, like magic is at last unleashed upon the world by his unrestrained hand, under his total control, made moldable by his will.

His will and _Harry’s._

Slowly, the gap mends under their concentrated effort, until the rip in the fabric of the universe is gone, until all that remains is the clear azure sky above and the vibrant colours of nature in the far distance. Until all is as it was before. Until all is well.

Tom finally feels safe to exhale, to push out the frenetic agitation buried deep into his lungs, to loosen his limbs and tuck his wand into his robes with a steady hand.

“He’s gone,” says Harry, so softly that Tom almost misses it.

Tom doesn’t ask for clarification. He knows what Harry means. He knows _who_ is gone.

“Gone,” Tom confirms.

“The barrier is solid,” Harry continues. “I don’t feel anything anymore. Nothing from the outside.”

Nothing more outside. Tom gazes back at the flattened patch of grass, at the space where they had just defeated Albus Dumbledore, so-called the greatest wizard of his generation. At last purged from Tom’s life, Dumbledore is now only a memory from the past—a memory that will not be permitted into the future.

“Just us two,” Tom says. “Just us left.”

Though part of Tom still wants to leave this place, to break down the magic holding him captive and escape into the world outside, the rest of him has reached an eerie state of acceptance.

He can be content here, separate from the reality of the harsh world he detested, of the terrible war he feared, of the loathsome classmates he wished to subjugate.

Just him and Harry Potter until the wards fall, launching them into an unknown future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! this chapter marks the end of other characters in the story—it will be just tom and harry going forward, and with some time skips we will begin the descent into romance.


	7. Year One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s honest, straightforward ways are like a cool salve, patching over the damage done by those who came before him. Harry is different. Harry sees him in a way that Tom is sure no one has ever seen him before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Harry tells Tom about his conversation with Dumbledore. Following further discussion, the boys decide to face Dumbledore together. With their combined efforts, Harry and Tom manage to seal the wards for good.
> 
> happy bday harry!

Following the defeat of Dumbledore, life under the wards returns to normal. As normal as life can feel, given the circumstances. Tom does not experience immediate relief knowing that his existence in this timeline is sealed—the world around him has that soft air of surreality, a detachment from both the past and the present.

Tom exists here, with Harry, but he _only_ exists here. He does not exist in his original time, and he does not exist in the future that Harry is from.

Here under the wards, Tom exists wholly on his own. He is a unique entity, an anomaly pulled from the natural timestream and marooned at a farmhouse in the middle of Europe. The strangeness of his environment relentlessly occupies his thoughts. Even at Hogwarts, Tom had never known peace. There were constant obstacles for him to overcome: his blood status, his lack of parents, his poverty.

Now, none of that matters.

Every morning without fail, Tom wakes with the sun and takes early breakfast in the domed dining area with Harry. There are no difficult decisions to be made. There are no pressing issues for him to resolve. Tom eyes the spread of his belongings in his room—the books, the potions kit, the bloody broomstick he’d asked for—and spends time thinking of all the dreams he’d created for himself.

Dreams of when he was old enough, when he was powerful enough, when he was immortal and wealthy and _safe._

Living here fulfills many of those requirements. Tom wants for nothing, worries for nothing, and he can do magic as he pleases. Though he loathes to admit it, the selection of books that Harry’s Muggleborn friend had chosen prove to be suitable to his tastes. The books are detailed enough to properly educate and well-written enough to provide a solid foundation for original research.

So Tom isn’t bored. In fact, he’s enjoying himself immensely. He has time to pursue his preferred subjects without the rest of the world weighing him down. Without his peers weighing him down and squandering his valuable time with their politicking and petty social games.

At Hogwarts, Tom had learned to thrive in the environment he was given, to charm and manipulate, but the sourness of falsity never dissipated—it remains a bitterness in the back of his mouth, the foundation of his upbringing, always lacking, always lesser. 

What Tom desires is recognition of his excellence in spite of everything else that society dictates. What Tom desires is that the world be shaped to his honest view, that people be judged by the traits and talents _he_ values. The traits and talents that _should_ be valued.

Tom does not forget his early days of being a Muggleborn orphan in Slytherin house. He does not forget, he does not forgive. His dormmates may tolerate him, may simper at his powerful displays of magic, but it is not what Tom wants. It is not enough. 

He might win their favour and their shallow friendship, but they will never see him as an equal. They will never acknowledge him as superior because of his _magic_ or his _intelligence—_ they will forever look down upon him for his dirty blood, for his non-existent lineage.

Compared to that, Harry’s honest, straightforward ways are like a cool salve, patching over the damage done by those who came before him. Harry is different. Harry sees him in a way that Tom is sure no one has ever seen him before. 

Maybe it’s because they now spend all their time together—Harry’s perception of him is a picture composed of all the little facts they’ve learned about each other. Maybe it’s because of their similar upbringings that Harry empathizes so strongly.

Or maybe, Tom thinks, maybe Harry looks at him and sees possibilities.

* * *

“I’m bored,” Harry announces one day over lunch. “We should do something.”

“We do plenty,” Tom replies. They look after those blasted chickens, and sometimes Tom even helps out in the garden. “But what were you thinking of?”

Harry shrugs, hand rising to ruffle the back of his head in his typical, hesitant gesture. “Something to break up the monotony.”

“You could go flying.” Harry’s broom goes faster than any broom from Tom’s time period. Tom can concede it must take skill to maneuver the broom the way Harry does. 

“I already do that,” Harry says, mild frustration laced with the words. “I would usually play Quidditch, but—” He glances over at Tom, expression guilty, then drops his face back to his plate.

Quidditch is a game for more than one, and Tom is not much inclined towards broomstick sports. But Tom doesn’t feel guilty about not liking it, and so Harry shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting to play it.

Tom has tried, quite a few times, to engage Harry in more scholarly endeavours. But Harry is convinced of working at the regular pace of his peers, following the meticulous outlines which had been supplied to him by his professors. 

The rest of Harry’s time, Tom has noted, is spent making chores out of thin air.

Harry can’t stand to be still, to be idle. When he is bored of schoolwork, he always finds some task to do in the house. Or even out in the yard, and never mind the cold weather.

“Did you have something else in mind?” Tom presses, hoping that for once Harry will be convinced to study. 

Just last week, Harry had demonstrated some spells from their textbooks, spells that Tom had yet to learn at Hogwarts. Tom learns easily, faster than most everyone he knows, but watching Harry cast spells aids his self-study process considerably.

“What do you do for fun?” Harry asks. Then, as if he’s been reading Tom’s thoughts, he adds, “Besides studying.”

Tom had never given much thought to doing things for fun. He does things for _reasons._ Fun is a concept held in line with positive feelings; he achieves positive feelings with his scholarly accomplishments, with his impressive magical abilities. But Harry doesn’t view fun the same way, and so Tom is at a loss for what to suggest.

“No, you should pick,” Tom says, smiling. The better if Harry thinks his offer is borne of kindness rather than indecision. As Harry continues to be silent, Tom elaborates, “We’re here on our own. No rules, no adults to control our actions. What’s something you have always wanted to do?”

Harry blinks, then appears to take the question under consideration, a thoughtfulness stealing across his face. “I don’t know, honestly. I usually just do whatever other people feel like doing.”

Suddenly, Tom knows exactly what he needs to say, the words coming to him with shocking ease. “Well,” Tom says, matter of fact, “it’s time for that to change. Make a decision, Harry. What would you like for us to do? We have all the time in the world. We have magic itself at our disposal.”

Harry sucks in a breath, eyes distant. He turns towards the colourful stained glass above their heads, to the clear panels that look out at the garden outside. “It’s not really the right weather for it, but…”

“But?”

“I’ve always wanted to build a treehouse.”

* * *

So that is how Tom finds himself outside in the dead of winter, using his magic to levitate boards of wood to the top of a tree. Harry is wrapped up in two jumpers and a Warming Charm, thick scarf covering half his face, hands at the ready to catch whatever Tom floats up to him.

“This is going to take forever,” Tom complains. The tip of his nose is numb and vaguely snotty, and his hands are stiff inside a pair of thick dragonhide gloves.

Harry pauses his work, brushing invisible debris off of his trousers and straightening up. “I mean, it is cold outside. We can go back in and come back to this in the spring—”

“Shut up,” Tom advises. “If you fall from that height I’ll be hard pressed to catch you, magic or not.”

Harry gapes like a fish for a second, mouth opening and closing, so Tom takes the opportunity to levitate another plank of wood. _Swish_ and _flick,_ then up it goes. Harry plucks the plank out of the air and sets it in place on the tree. 

It had taken them a while to locate spells that would help them level the floor properly, but from there it had been a simple matter of creating the materials and putting them in the correct place.

Harry derives great enjoyment from climbing trees—maybe because the elevation reminds him of Quidditch—and so Tom had volunteered himself for the task of crafting wooden boards and floating them up. With all the firewood that Tonks had left them, Tom has plenty of wood to duplicate and alter into the correct shapes.

“Maybe we can stop after we finish the floor,” Harry says.

“Sure,” Tom agrees, just so Harry will stop talking.

“Okay,” Harry says. “So we’ll stop after we finish the floor.”

They stay outside another two hours. The floor is only partially finished by the time they stomp into the house, faces pink with success. Tom sheds his coat and hangs in the closet. As he does so, his eyes catch on the top shelf, on the items he’d once noted then forgotten all about. The boxes look old, worn, and well-loved. They remind Tom of their counterparts, of the game boxes that sit in Wool’s Orphanage, fifty years in the past. Games he had rarely played, toys he had looked down upon because he’d decided they were beneath him.

“Dinner?” asks Harry.

Tom doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing. “Sure.”

Harry’s eyes trace a path towards the objects holding Tom’s attention. Something flickers across Harry’s face, then, so fast that Tom doesn’t have the chance to decipher it.

They walk into the kitchen. Tom heats leftovers from lunch while Harry makes two steaming cups of hot cocoa. Since their tasks are hastened by magic, it’s not long before they’re once again seated at the dining table.

Tom warms his hands on the mug that Harry passes to him, then lifts it to his lips. The taste of cocoa on his tongue is always rich, nearly overwhelming. Tom savours the flavour, the tinge of chocolate bitterness mixed with the sugar and cream. He won’t tire of this, even as the sweetness settles like rot in his mouth. Having the luxury reminds him of where he is, of _who_ he is, and of all the things he deserves to have.

Harry cups his own mug, blowing delicately over the surface of the liquid. His glasses are fogging faintly with steam as he takes a sip. The cloudiness fades after a while, leaving Harry’s eyes clear and green once more.

The rest of the evening is spent quietly in the living room. Harry’s restlessness must have been appeased by their outdoor excursion, because he doesn’t pester Tom for company or conversation. 

Tom tears through half a textbook before he decides the hour is late enough to get ready for bed. The warm crackling of the fire is enough to put anyone to sleep, and the afternoon’s exertion has Tom feeling more tired than usual. Tom sets his book aside and rubs his hands over his thighs and knees to get the blood flowing again.

The motion draws Harry’s attention. Green eyes trace over him like invisible beams of light. Tom removes his hands from his knees and sits up. Harry’s gaze is a gentle touch, like the heat from the fireplace that Tom can feel all the way down to his toes. Unsettled, Tom rises to his feet and bids Harry a hasty goodnight. 

Out in the hallway by the staircase, Tom looks at the entrance, at the closet where the board games are located. Were they put there on purpose? Did Harry want to play?

Tom goes upstairs, trying to shake his half-formed thoughts away. He washes up for bed, but once he is in bed, he doesn’t fall asleep right away. Time trickles in dribs and drabs while Tom tosses and turns, trying to get comfortable. This bed is just as nice as his four-poster bed at Hogwarts, if not more so, and Tom had not experienced any problems sleeping since arriving here. Tonight, however, his mind seems determined to keep him awake no matter what.

After some hours have passed, Harry’s footsteps come and go, creaking quietly up the stairs and across the floor. When the sound of Harry’s door finally shuts, the house falls still and quiet. Something in Tom unfurls, relaxing, and in the familiar silence, Tom finally allows the fatigue of the day to send him into a sleep free of dreams.

* * *

Winter has always been a painfully slow season for Tom, who associates the winter holidays with an empty common room and dreary corridors. But the house he lives in now is constantly warm, constantly bright. Tom has all the material items he needs to thrive, all the books required to keep his mind stimulated. He has Harry to fill his passing hours with companionship. 

Tom no longer feels a pressing need for an audience, for a witness to his success and magical prowess, but Harry obliges most excellently anyways. And even aside from that aspect of it, Tom finds himself glancing over during the day to catch Harry’s reactions, waiting for the little tells that signify Harry’s amusement, or surprise, or irritation.

Tom categorizes all those minuscule responses, slowly building the mental model of Harry in his head. He is scraping back that genial exterior to uncover the distinctive, compelling depths that lie underneath. 

Sometimes Harry will go too far in his excitement to share, to talk to the only other person in the house. Tom welcomes the conversation, encouraging it, but Harry continues to catch himself before anything too interesting spills forth. He’ll pause mid-sentence, adjusting his words, censoring the content of his thoughts. It doesn’t irritate Tom as much as it used to, though, so Tom lets it go.

On his birthday, Harry gets him a present—a fine cloak of high quality that befits any high class Slytherin scion. It is, in fact, the nicest piece of clothing Tom has ever owned. It does not fit with anything in his current wardrobe. But what’s strange is that the cloak doesn’t fit with Harry’s wardrobe, either. Tom’s opened the downstairs closet enough times to know that all of Harry’s cloaks and coats, while nice, are nowhere near the same caliber of quality as this birthday gift.

Harry is able to afford the kind of lavish articles that Tom has only ever dreamed of. Harry had guessed correctly, in advance, that Tom would appreciate the finery, the craftsmanship, and the luxury of a ridiculously expensive cloak. Harry, in a bizarre act of intuitive kindness, had seen to combine those two threads of truth into a birthday present.

So Tom doesn’t worry about what Harry thinks of him. So long as Harry likes him, trusts him, Tom has no doubt that someday Harry will tell him everything.

* * *

When Tom wakes in the mornings, he watches snow drift down upon the frozen garden, covering the stained glass skylights, blanketing the fields in white. 

The snow keeps them indoors, keeps them occupied with each other, and so Tom grows used to the shape of a classic chess piece between his fingers. Smooth, enchanted stone that is cool to the touch. Harry is terrible at chess, but Tom lets him win once and sits through the teasing afterwards. It’s a small price to pay for Harry’s goodwill.

They play other games, too. The play _Snakes and Ladders_ while Hyperion slithers around their ankles. They play _Scrabble_ and argue over the validity of incantations as allowable words. They play _Battleship,_ which results in a very long argument about psychological warfare that somehow ends in laughter.

Harry says they’re friends; he says it without hesitation. He speaks of Ron and Hermione and Neville and Ginny and Luna as his ‘other friends’. Tom refers to Harry as his friend, once, just to try it, and is promptly bemused by the way Harry’s eyes light up in response.

Tom becomes fond of the oversweet taste of hot cocoa, of the weighty feel of the fireplace poker in his hands, of the glow of the fire draped like sheer silk across Harry’s peaceful, sleeping face.

On the coldest nights, once Harry’s gone to bed, Tom eyes the star-strewn sky, his hot breath misting the air. He is making new memories, drawing new associations. He is reinventing himself in the absence of the relentless, revolving world.

Tom discards the past and looks, instead, to the brilliant, unending future.

* * *

They finish their treehouse in spring. Harry immediately dubs it the Treehouse of Secrets, which Tom doesn’t find half as amusing as Harry seems to. 

They fill the space with cushions, blankets, and Transfigured furniture; Tom considers it as an extension of the house despite the physical distance. There is even a perch for Hyperion to lounge on that Harry paints bright green with silver stripes. 

The painting doesn’t stop there. Harry digs out more paints from the basement, all sorts of types and colours. Then he proceeds to capture, on canvas, the panoramic sights around them: the brilliant, fiery colours of dawn, the cool spring afternoons when they picnic out in the field, the deep shadows of their treehouse that dance across the ground on a windy day.

There’s something mesmerizing about the paint strokes, the hues soaking into the canvas, the mixing of the paints to produce just the right colour.

Then one day, Harry asks him to give painting a canvas a go.

“You’re doing fine on your own,” Tom says. “I don’t need to paint anything.”

“It’s fun, though, Tom. Even if you’re just mixing colours around.”

“Save the paints for yourself.”

Harry waves his paintbrush dangerously close to Tom’s face, dangerously close to accidentally splattering paint on his shirt. “I’ve got plenty of paint. And I can just make more if I need it.”

Tom shifts a slow step backwards, out of arm’s reach. “I said I’m fine.”

“C’mon, Tom. Just one painting? You can’t tell me you’re having fun with all that reading you do.” Harry squints, paintbrush paused in midair.

“I’m learning _magic,_ which is plenty of fun.”

“Uh huh,” Harry says, then goes back to his canvas, which is sporting a half-finished portrait of Hyperion lounging out in the garden, surrounded by potato plants. 

Harry’s done an excellent job of capturing the way the sunlight bounces off of Hyperion’s scales. The black contrasts beautifully with the vibrance of the surrounding garden, Tom muses. 

There’s a softness to the way Harry paints, to the way he portrays the world. To the way the lights and colours and shadows translate into acrylics. It’s not the act of painting that interests Tom—it’s the unique process of it. It’s the way _Harry_ paints that makes it different.

Tom stares at the canvas and its owner for a few minutes before he goes back inside, some excuse or another tumbling from his lips in his hurry to depart. 

Tom doesn’t want to paint, but he does wonder what _he_ would look like on a canvas, the colours and curves of his face coming to life under Harry’s paintbrush. The gleam of his narrowed eyes, the curl of his dark hair, the slant of his half smile.

_How does Harry see him?_

Tom might not admit it to himself, but the truth of it is that he’s too afraid to ask.

* * *

As the weeks and months pass, Tom spends less time overthinking and more time simply observing. It’s just the two of them in this space, walking paces and spinning circles around each other. 

Tom is hyper aware of Harry’s presence in the house. He knows the pattern of Harry’s footfalls on the staircase, the sound of the backdoor shutting when Harry comes in from the garden. Tom knows the wordless tune of Harry’s humming—he’s humming songs that don’t exist for Tom just yet. Songs from another time.

One day, Tom walks into Harry’s room—the door is open, a clear invitation—and finds Harry staring at the wall. The blank, eggshell-coloured wall. All the surrounding furniture has been pushed away from it, leaving the room a disastrous mess. Tom has to maneuver around a box and a side table to get to where Harry is standing.

“I’m going to paint it,” Harry says, determined. He’s still facing the wall and not looking in Tom’s direction.

“Okay,” Tom agrees. It’s not his bedroom, so why should he care what Harry does with the walls?

“I was thinking about drawing some kind of mural. I’m going to sketch it in pencil first, though.”

“Have fun.”

Finally, Harry shifts around, and he’s looking Tom in the eyes as he asks, “Will you help me paint it?”

Tom blames a lot of different things for what he says next. He wants to put an end to the nagging about painting. He wants to find out more about the future from Harry, and this is a good opportunity for that. He wants… he wants to watch Harry paint some more.

“I suppose,” Tom says.

Harry grins, wild and bright. Tom feels warm at the sight of it.

Spring is a season of beginnings; this, too, feels like an excuse for a fresh start.

* * *

Summer creeps up on them. The cheery weather takes a sweltering turn as Tom sheds his jumpers in favour of lightweight shirts with the sleeves rolled back. The hot sun feels like a heat press on his pale skin whenever he ventures outside.

Harry, tan-skinned and seemingly unbothered by the humidity, wears t-shirts and shorts every day. Tom observes Harry tromping around in the backyard, tending to the feisty, noisy chickens, and mooning over Hyperion whenever the snake drags a new bloody animal carcass to their doorstep.

Tom’s outdoor activities consist of holding an umbrella and watering the plants with his wand. Occasionally he’ll help Harry feed the chickens, but the bloody things are insane. Two chickens had gotten into a fight during the spring, and one of them had _died._ Tom wants nothing to do with them. 

Most of them, anyways.

One day, Harry happens upon Tom in the Treehouse of Secrets. He gives Tom a disapproving look, then shifts his attention to the fluffy white bird currently hopping its way around on the wooden planks.

“What did I say about chickens in the treehouse?”

  
  
Tom jerks his head in a negative. “Cluckers is a _good_ chicken. She doesn’t make messes like the others.”

“She’s going to flap out the window by mistake and die a tragic death on the forest floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She has wings.” Tom scoops Cluckers up and deposits her on his lap, where she settles after a minor cluck of protest, feathers ruffling in irritation at being moved. Tom had named her in a fit of petulance after Harry had bothered him about spending time with her. Not all creatures need fancy names like ‘Hyperion’.

“Hyperion’s going to get jealous at this rate,” Harry remarks.

“Hyperion and Cluckers are friends.”

Harry shakes his head. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

Tom smiles. “I do. Glad you’ve finally gotten that fact into your thick skull.”

Harry snorts and flops down onto his usual chair, legs sprawled carelessly. “No feathers, Tom, or else I’m going to look up how to carve anti-chicken runes into the tree bark.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Tom smooths Cluckers’ feathers, intent on ignoring Harry’s threats. But he does level his chicken with a look. If she sheds a single feather, there will be consequences for them both. “Do not shed,” Tom instructs her. If she does, he’ll be the one who has to clean it up.

“You speak to snakes, not chickens,” Harry teases. “Unless I’m missing something?”

Tom scoffs and wraps his arms around Cluckers. “We have an understanding, Cluckers and I.”

“And the rest of the chickens?” Harry asks.

“The rest of them are horrible. I want nothing to do with them.” This is his stance on the matter, and he is sticking to it.

“So you have one chicken you like, and the rest can go hang, is that it?”

“Yes. Precisely that.”

Harry widens his smile so much that his face dimples.

“What’s so amusing?” Tom says cautiously. Cluckers squirms out of his lap and proceeds to strut towards the window. Tom keeps half of his attention on her, and half of his attention on Harry. The both of them are ridiculously distracting.

“Nothing,” Harry says. His grin softens out into a gentler expression that makes Tom’s stomach twist. “Just a stray thought.”

Tom wants to ask what that thought is, but then Cluckers makes a bid for the window and his attention is otherwise occupied. Harry laughs as Tom summons the hen back into the treehouse, the sound ringing loud and clear through the forest around them.

By the time they walk home, the comment is forgotten altogether.

* * *

The project of painting Harry’s bedroom wall ends up more complicated than Tom had expected.

Harry has a very specific vision for what he wants, and so the project is spaced out in sporadic one-week periods while Harry continues to plan more details. The sketching alone takes ages, and even after that is done, Harry isn’t satisfied with all of it.

Eventually, though, they start to paint. They leave the windows open to air out the smell while they work. Tom tries casting a Bubble-Head Charm, but it distorts the air around him, warping Harry’s voice like they are separated by thick glass, and so he gets rid of it after a few hours.

After some discussion, they settle on an agreement: Tom will paint base colours while Harry paints the details. 

Once his assigned painting is done for the day, Tom sits atop the dresser and asks Harry questions. Anything to get Harry talking, especially while he’s distracted. It doesn’t matter exactly what Harry talks about, either. If the answers are interesting in other ways, then that’s still an added benefit.

“What new inventions are there in the future?”

Electronics, mostly. Improvements on things that Tom already knows. Improved phones, improved cars, improved everything. There are so many things that sound fascinating to Tom, but unfortunately they need to be experienced firsthand. Here in this house they are far removed from the modern, urban living spaces where such technology is found.

“Who is the Minister of Magic?”

A derisive laugh. Cornelius Fudge—an idiot, according to Harry. A figurehead for the agendas of more powerful men. A spineless leader who cowers in his office. A wizard, Tom guesses, that would bow easily to the right pressure. Harry is evasive about the details of his dislike, but Tom can gather that Harry would gladly see the man out of office if given the chance to make it happen.

“What did you plan to do once you graduate Hogwarts?”

Harry pauses on this question, paintbrush held back from the wall as his eyes scrunch around up. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”

“Never?” Tom allows his disbelief to colour his words. “You _are_ taking your OWLs this year, aren’t you?”

“I am—” Harry makes a sound of frustration, torso shifting as he squares his shoulders. “I am. But I’ve had more important things to worry about, yeah?”

Tom’s mind does a whirl. For him, the future is always at the forefront of his mind. All that he learns, all that he teaches himself—all of that is for that future. For plans he’s made, for the connections he’s gathered. Tom’s done his research on the Ministry, on the politics of magical Britain, and what he’d discovered were the same attributes that Harry sees in Minister Fudge. Tom looks at magical Britain and sees a nation that will bow to the right pressure. 

A nation that will bow to _him,_ if he is clever enough to try.

“There’s plenty of time to think about what I want to do now, anyways,” Harry adds into the cool air of the bedroom, his jaw firm with defiance.

Upon hearing that, Tom’s thoughts settle, and through his confusion emerges a solid, unspoken answer:

Harry _had_ been busy with important things prior to coming here. Harry had been busy with this house. With him—Tom.

“Of course,” Tom says, his words distant to his own ears. “I’m sorry I pushed for an answer.”

Harry squints, thrown by the drastic change in tone. “Yeah,” Harry says after a moment. He turns back to his bedroom wall, to the tall shape of a stag that he’d been adding highlights to. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.”

* * *

Harry is surprised when Tom wants to celebrate his birthday. Which is offensive, given that Tom has gone out of his way to be nice this entire time. Not to mention Tom does believe in reciprocation. Harry had given him a nice present, and so Tom has taken it upon himself to return the favour as best he can.

“A picnic,” Tom says stiffly, leading Harry into the kitchen. A prepared basket sits on the counter, full of fruits and lunch foods.

“This is… really nice,” Harry mumbles. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“You do it all the time,” Tom feels compelled to point out. “This is hardly a chore in comparison.”

“Well, alright.” Harry flushes and makes to grab for the basket. Tom swats Harry’s hands away and snatches it up instead.

“You’re an idiot,” Tom tells him, irritated. Then he adds, “Happy birthday.”

Harry laughs a little, though the euphoria is watered down by self-consciousness. “Thank you,” Harry says, ducking his head the slightest bit.

“You’re welcome,” Tom says, smug, then begins a march towards the door.

After lunch, they lie on their backs and watch the clouds. It’s a lazy type of day, and so Tom is content to listen as Harry describes the shapes he sees. 

As his mind wanders, Tom ponders the choices of the strange boy next to him. Do the shapes of Harry’s clouds have meaning? Does a dragon-shape cloud have some subconscious explanation behind it?

“That one’s a chicken,” Harry says suddenly, pointing. “It’s Cluckers.”

Tom’s eyes follow the line of Harry’s arm. “I don’t see her there.” Harry must be poking fun at him again for only liking one chicken out of their many, many chickens.

“It is!” Harry insists. “She’s right there, right there in the sky.”

Tom shakes his head. “Next you’ll be saying that _I’m_ up there in the clouds.”

Harry rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his elbow. “You’re too complicated to be a cloud.”

Something about the way Harry is looking at him prompts Tom to ask: “So what am I, then?”

Harry’s face grows oddly serious given the previous levity of their conversation, and his breath passes in and out for long moments while Tom waits for an answer.

“You once said that we weren’t so different,” Harry says, sitting up. “Do you still think that?”

Now it is Tom’s turn to think about a response. 

He and Harry have a lot in common, more than Tom had ever expected to have in common with anyone, certainly. But Harry is… Harry is something else. Someone else. There are parts of Harry that make him smile, just as there are parts of Harry that he still doesn’t understand.

There is a connection between them, between their wands; a mystery that Tom is no closer to unravelling than he had been when he first set foot on these lands.

Tom had thought that he liked Harry because of their similarities. The traits he admires in himself are traits he can admire in Harry, too. Tom has only ever been self-reliant and self-confident, he has never had _reason_ to trust anyone else—

And yet here Harry is: trust earned and friendship built.

“I think,” Tom says, “having things in common helps us get along. But we’re not exactly the same, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Harry leans back onto his elbows, his head turning back towards the sun. “Yeah,” says Harry. “I think you’re right.”

Tom turns and stares at the glaring sun and the puffy clouds. The pause in their conversation stretches on like the endless sky. 

It is only then that Tom remembers that Harry is not the same age as him, that Harry is now sixteen years old. No one would think they were the same age from just looking at them. Tom’s always been gangly, too tall and too serious for his age, and Harry has a youthful look about him, an innocence that is difficult to shake.

“What about my question, then?” Tom says. “What am I, if I’m too complex to be a cloud?”

_Who am I to you, Harry? When you imagine me, what do you think of?_

Harry tilts onto his side for the second time. His expression is calm, peaceful. Tom stares into pools of green, mesmerized. Tom knows what he thinks of when he imagines Harry.

This very spot in the middle of the field, for one. The gentle sound of feet pattering in the kitchen. The glint of sunlight off of round lenses. The smell of the freshly dug soil and garden herbs. The softest of smiles directed his way.

Harry hums under his breath, then says, “Clouds are… they’re distant. Unreachable. You only notice if the clouds are there or not. If they block the sunlight or not. We can’t change anything about them—we can only change what shape we think they look like.”

Tom wants to protest, to demand a _proper_ explanation, not this nonsensical one. He very nearly does, but then Harry shakes his head. All attempts at speech die sharply in Tom’s throat at the look on Harry’s face: so determined, so _resolute._

“You’re a person, Tom. You’re a real person, with thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams. You could change, if you wanted to. That’s why you can’t be a cloud.”

The resulting emotion burns deeply in Tom’s lungs. He can’t tear his gaze away from the honesty, from the odd eloquence of Harry’s words. Clarity burns through him like a fever, more dangerous than any dark magic he has ever attempted, more potent than any self-indulgent fantasy he has ever entertained.

_How does Harry see him?_

Harry sees him as someone worth saving.

Even after the day is over, this sentiment lingers in Tom’s head, an echo of Harry that never leaves him. It prompts a question Tom had never thought to ask himself: who will he be once this strange respite has passed? When he rejoins the rest of the world, where will the new path of his life lead?

Tom doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what his future holds, and this knowledge no longer scares him like it ought to. Whoever he is, wherever he ends up, the moments he has lived here, with Harry, will remain constant. These golden memories exist only in this space, a space safe from the distant reality of a world where he had been destined to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a turn for the Soft^tm. expect further chicken shenanigans in the future. cluckers is best girl!!


	8. Year Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It pleases him to know that Harry can challenge him this way. It assures him that his impressions are correct, that Harry is worth his time and energy and more. They may be playing the waiting game under these wards, but the future is ages away. Tom will greet that as it comes. In time, he will secure Harry as his ally. As his friend. As his partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Now that the threat of Dumbledore is gone, Tom and Harry settle back into their regular routine. They grow closer as friends. They build a treehouse in the forest, play board games, and start painting a mural in Harry's room. Tom wonders what Harry thinks of him, and eventually he gets his answer: Harry sees him as someone worth saving. This realization rounds off thoughts that have been building in Tom for a long time—finally he is in a place where he is safe and can be himself.

Harry’s mural finishes in October. Tom can’t help but wonder if this is deliberate. Did Harry want this done to celebrate the end of their first official year under the wards?

“How much longer, do you think?” Tom asks. They’re peeling off the paper sheets they’d taped up to protect the finished parts of the wall. 

More images had been added to the design as they’d gone along—themes from their past year together that Harry has woven into the art like it was all meant to be. Harry had made so many changes that Tom’s completely forgotten what the entire wall is supposed to look like.

“Till we’re out, you mean?” Harry’s brows tug together the slightest amount, then smooth back out. “I really dunno. I guess I’m not surprised it’s been a year. I expected we’d be here for a while.”

Tom peels off more paper, uncovering the rolling landscape he and Harry had painted together. Individual brush strokes painted by his own hand. Tom remembers making each of them. This mural is Harry’s vision, though. Harry is the one who made these images come to life. 

“Could be years,” Tom muses. “Could be a decade, maybe.”

Harry seems bothered by this—instead of responding, he turns to the wall and removes another sheet of paper. On this section of the wall there are tiny portraits of Harry’s other friends, of the people Tom has never met but feels like he knows. He knows them by name. Ron Weasley. Hermione Granger. Neville Longbottom. Ginny Weasley. Luna Lovegood. Even Harry’s pet owl, Hedwig, has a spot of honour. Before going into the past, Harry had given the owl into his friends’ care. 

Next, Harry untapes a third sheet, revealing a portrait of Tom sitting cross-legged with Cluckers on his lap.

Tom’s immediate reaction is that this is unfair. Harry must have done this when he wasn’t around and chosen to spring it on him to catch him off-guard.

“You drew me,” Tom says. A neutral statement, his attempt to keep his tone level while he waits to see what Harry has to say. But part of him is already—is already _upset._ Or maybe it is some other emotion clogging up his throat and chest.

Harry has chosen to put Tom on this wall with all his friends, with all the other things that are important to him. This makes sense; Tom is important to Harry.

So why does it feel so strange?

“Yeah,” Harry says.

Tom dislikes the awkward air in the room. There are a number of words on the tip of his tongue, but none of them are right. Most of the thoughts running through his mind are derisive, dismissive—

They’re not an accurate representation of what he’s actually feeling.

“Do you like it?” Harry asks, nervously so.

Harry is most likely nervous because Tom isn’t saying anything. But Tom doesn’t know _what_ to say. Maybe Harry only included him because it would be rude not to.

_Harry said we’re friends. He said that. He cares._

“It looks—” Tom clears his throat. “You did a good job. It looks very nice. I—” His throat stops up again. Tom clears it a second time, then adds, “I like how you did the feathers.”

Harry beams. “I’m glad! I tried really hard to distinguish her from the other hens.”

The light tone of Harry’s voice comes as a strange relief. Tom pushes it from his mind, deciding it’s better—safer—not to linger on it.

* * *

The basement is dark, lit by one dangling bulb from the ceiling. Tom casts _Lumos_ with his wand so he can maneuver the steep stairs. Harry is just behind him, hand on the railing as they descend. Their goal is to calculate how much food they have left and how long it will last. 

The Preservation and Shrinking Charms won’t last forever. Eventually, the magic will fade. Then he and Harry will have to periodically refresh the spells. They are only teenagers, not fully-grown adults, which means their spells will fade even faster. Thus the need for checking and calculating.

There are, according to Harry, over twenty years’ worth of supplies stored down here. Supplies that will last even longer if they make good use of the chickens and the garden.

Tom counts crates of cans and boxes of non-perishables while Harry goes over his lists and makes notes. Most of the boxes are hardly the size of a shopping basket. It must have taken a long time and a lot of magic to prepare everything.

“We’ve got Shrinking Solutions in one of these boxes,” Harry says. “So we’ll aim to use those up first. That way we’ll have more time before we have to start using our own magic.”

The process is logical. There are reasons for the existence of every item in this basement, as well as instructions on when and where to either use them or open them. Harry parrots what he’s been told and provides parchment lists regarding the rest. Tom reads through it all and finds he doesn’t have any protests.

It still takes them weeks to get through everything. By the time they are finished, Tom thinks that the prospect of _years_ is now more daunting than it had originally been.

Tom had assumed they would spend some years here. A _few_ years. Not more than that. But there are over two decades’ worth of goods stored down here. Items meant to keep them healthy and alive.

Twenty years of his life here with Harry. Twenty years longer than he would have had otherwise, but twenty years nonetheless. In twenty years, he will be in his thirties. Tom cannot fathom how it will feel to be _twenty,_ let alone thirty.

What will he and Harry be doing here in twenty years? Tending to the gardens and watching the sunrise over the fields and the forest. Minding the chickens and spending long afternoons holed up in the treehouse.

Life has slowed in a comical way. Tom’s grown used to lazy afternoons and long evenings. The ruthless ambition that once fueled him has given way to other desires—desires Tom had once dismissed as the fruitless wishing of children who were too young to know better.

Desires for a simple life. A silly, happy one. A life where his birthday is spent playing board games and watching the stars.

In the safety of this space, Tom is growing older.

He is _growing._

* * *

“Tooooom!”

Tom rises from his chair in his room. “In a minute!” He’s gotten used to Harry calling for him throughout the day. Harry only does so with good reason; Tom is usually willing to stop what he’s doing if Harry needs his help for something important.

When Tom arrives downstairs, he is greeted by the sight of Harry, Hyperion, and Cluckers all covered in flour.

“What—” Tom begins, then cuts himself off. If he finishes his question, his neutral expression will splinter and his mirth will break through.

“I was baking,” Harry says, matter-of-fact. “Then these two came to bother me.”

Hyperion is loosely wrapped around Cluckers’ fluffy white body. He looks very smug for a snake with white powder splattered all over his black scales.

“Partners in crime,” Tom says. His comment has the anticipated effect—that is, it makes Harry laugh.

“They’re criminals, alright.” Harry glares, with fondness, down at their pets.

Cluckers waddles towards the back door, taking Hyperion with her. Tom watches with heavy amusement as she retreats, tail feathers brushing against the makeshift cat flap that he and Harry had installed some months ago. “Did they get onto the counter?”

“No,” Harry says. “They kept walking around me. I was worried I would trip, and then I dropped the flour.”

Harry’s face is scrunched into the most put-upon expression Tom has ever seen. Add on that Harry is covered almost entirely in flour, and it is a delightful view.

Tom’s lips quirk as he holds back his laugh. “Did you call me here to clean you off?”

Harry scowls and brushes at his clothes. “No! I called you here to kick them out. But seeing as they’ve already left—”

Tom interrupts, uses his wand to vanish most of the mess. His magic sweeps over the area, leaving the counters and floor spotless. The only flour-covered thing left is Harry.

“Alright,” Harry says with dignity, straightening his shoulders and deliberately looking Tom in the eyes. “I’ll just go and change, then. Could you mind the oven?”

Tom nods and smiles at Harry’s retreating back, then walks over to the oven. Two trays of muffins are baking inside. Tom knows without checking that one of them will be chocolate chip and the other will be banana. That this tidbit of information occupies space in his mind is a wonder all on its own.

Harry comes back a few minutes later. He is wearing a flannel that is several sizes too large and hangs like a tent on his skinny frame. The sleeves are rolled up past the elbow, though Tom has no idea how the cuffs stay in place on those bony arms.

“All good?” Harry asks. He means the muffins, Tom knows.

“Everything is perfect,” Tom says. Things can only get better.

* * *

Months blend into each other. Tom is only vaguely aware of time because of its relation to the changing weather. The tree leaves fall, the snow blankets the fields, the flowers in the garden bloom into beauty. 

Tom’s prior experiences with nature have been few and far between—jaunts around the parks of London, and Wool’s annual trip to the seaside. Now, though, he finds he has a greater appreciation for it all. Life that grows on its own. Plants and trees that survive year after year despite the trials of climate and human interference.

Tom does not survive here under the wards; he lives, and he lives well. He is well-fed and healthy. His mind and hands are busy with learning and gardening. There are times when his reflection looks foreign to him. He is taller, his limbs longer, his face more angular. His clothes are casual, if neatly ironed and clean of dirt, and his hair is longer than he used to keep it.

One fine afternoon many seasons ago, Harry and Tom had taken scissors to each other’s heads. They had hemmed and hawed for long enough, putting the task off until even Harry had to admit that it was becoming a problem.

Neither of them had any idea what they were doing, and although there was no one here to witness them, there remained an underlying fear of looking awful for however long it took for the damage to grow itself out. Tom decided he would stick to trimming and instructed Harry to do the same. The task had proven easier than expected, much to his surprise. 

As they worked, they made occasional eye contact in the mirror. Harry had trouble holding the gaze, but Tom didn’t mind it. Admittedly, the feeling of Harry’s fingers combing through his hair was nice, almost comforting. If Tom had not been so stressed about the final result, the experience would have bordered on relaxing.

Even so, the relaxation would not have lasted long: Cluckers had trampled into the bathroom and eaten their hair trimmings, much to Tom’s amusement and Harry’s dismay. The rest of the afternoon devolved into a disastrous mess of chicken puke strewn all over the upstairs floor as they tried to chase down their erstwhile pet.

After the mess was wiped away, they had wound up on the couch in front of the empty fireplace, exhausted and out of breath. Harry’s new haircut was plastered to his cheeks and forehead in sweaty clumps while he rubbed at his eyes.

Tom thinks about that night often. More often than makes sense. He thinks about the times they bump hands, the times Harry smiles at him, and—

It’s all strange and new, to feel this way about such mundane things. It’s a newness that warms him to his bones, a gentle familiarity that settles his restless mind. Tom closes his eyes and recalls the smell of freshly-baked muffins and acrylic paints, relives the quiet summer afternoons spent watching the azure skies, remembers the day Harry came to Wool’s to save him.

His entire world is Harry, now. And Harry’s entire world is Tom Riddle.

Even putting their proximity and circumstances aside, there is something special here. Tom wants to ask more questions. He wants to ask questions all the time, though his recent questions are directed at the past and present instead of the future. The future is nebulous, distant, and unknowable, but Harry is here with him, a puzzle begging to be picked apart.

Who knows how long they have here together? Tom has a finite amount of time to enjoy Harry’s undivided attention. He will monopolize it while he can.

* * *

The first time Tom’s voice cracks, Harry says nothing. He flashes a tiny smile, eyes crinkling, then averts his gaze to the window and acts like nothing is amiss. Tom’s face begins to burn, but he ruthlessly shoves the emotion down, unwilling to let his embarrassment show.

Tom assumes Harry has already passed much of the awkward transition from adolescence to adulthood. Harry has the gangly limbs and the deeper voice and the clean-cut jawline. That’s alright, though. To Tom it is fitting, in a way, that Harry witnesses his transition. So much of their time together has shaped them—this will be one more experience that ties them together.

Harry might have chosen him, might have decided to save him—but now Tom has chosen Harry in return. He has accepted Harry into his life, into his trust. Harry has proven himself worthy of Tom’s regard. Rarely has Tom bestowed such an honour on anyone; most others he hated, and those he did not he could never trust their motivations wholly.

In Slytherin, they looked to blood status first. They expected greatness from blood, and they did not think to expect otherwise. They only looked at power when they were forced to, and so Tom had forced them. He had _made_ them look at him, acknowledge him, admire him.

Harry has done all of those things without any encouragement. He has Tom’s respect for that.

* * *

As the weather warms, they invent new games to play. They chase each other through the woods, launching sparks through the damp air. A magical game of tag, Harry calls it. Tom likes this game. It has dueling and strategy rolled into one without a high risk of their magic interacting. They can anticipate each other’s actions and react in kind. 

Slowly, Tom learns how Harry thinks in the context of war. Harry thinks best on his feet, with decisions made at the drop of a hat. Harry does not tend to think past the moment at hand; he relies on his instincts and his agility to see him to victory. It works, though. Tom sees that Harry’s instincts are exceptional—many times Harry has caught him off-guard with an unexpected twist of direction or change in strategy.

It pleases him to know that Harry can challenge him this way. It assures him that his impressions are correct, that Harry is worth his time and energy and more. They may be playing the waiting game under these wards, but the future is ages away. Tom will greet that as it comes. In time, he will secure Harry as his ally. As his friend. As his partner.

“We work well together,” Tom says, “like we’re connected. You know how I think, and I know how you think. If we were outside, we would be unstoppable.”

They are walking towards the treehouse after an afternoon’s worth of tromping through the woods. Tom has the paths memorized now. He knows which roots to leap over and which trees are best for climbing. He and Harry have talked about re-landscaping the area to make their matches more exciting.

Harry pauses mid-step and pivots to face him. Tom sprinkles in comments like these here and there, but lately he’s been firmer. More bold. “Outside the wards, do you mean?”

“Yes.” Tom folds his arms across his chest, then unfolds them, trying to loosen the sudden tension in his shoulders. “Don’t you agree? You said before that you agree: we make a good team.”

“I did say that,” Harry admits.

“We built the treehouse,” Tom continues, “and we work the gardens and care for the chickens.” They do everything together.

“We do,” Harry agrees. His bemused expression fades away to something softer. 

Tom commits the look to memory, greedy for the sight of it. Perhaps that’s why his next words emerge in a rush. “We’re at our best when we work together. I’ve never gotten along with anyone the way I get along with you.” This is the truth—Tom isn’t ashamed to admit it. If the truth also helps win Harry over, then that is merely an additional benefit.

Harry smiles but doesn’t say anything right away. What Tom wants is to hear that Harry thinks the same way about him. He wants confirmation that he is the most important person in Harry’s life, that he is held high above the rest.

After a moment, Harry speaks. “That means a lot to me. I know it wasn’t easy for you to agree to come and live here with a total stranger. I—I’m glad you said yes.”

It’s not exactly what Tom wanted to hear, but he’s not disappointed. The words are heartfelt. They are nice to hear, if only because Tom knows Harry is being truthful.

“I’m glad I said yes, too.”

* * *

One warm spring night finds them sitting on the roof with apple slices and peanut butter. Tom likes the mild breeze and the open skies. His legs stretch out, the heels of his shoes bumping against the rough tiling. Harry, conversely, has his arms wrapped around his legs, back slightly hunched.

Harry does that a lot. He curls up, makes himself small. The instances where Harry seems truly comfortable few and far between. It’s hardly noticeable on most days. Most days, they are both worry-free and content with themselves, and Harry can mask his troubles with an easy-going attitude and careless half-smiles. 

Still, Tom can see the toll of those invisible weights that hold Harry down. He can only guess at what they are, what they mean, so he makes note of what he sees and bides his time.

Harry is at his best when his adrenaline is flowing, when he is on his broomstick and flying through the air, or running through the forest with spells blasting by him. Harry at his best is a blazing inferno of mischief and confidence. Delighted laugher and cheerful, witty insults at Tom’s expense. 

Harry at his worst? Tom has only ever caught glimpses of that. Shadows of the past that steal the joy from Harry’s eyes. Memories that bring pain and regret.

There is no nice, easy way to direct conversation towards those topics. From experience, Tom knows that reciprocation is the best tactic to use on Harry. However, to accomplish that requires a level of intimacy Tom remains reluctant to engage in. Harry already knows so much about him. All that he was, all that he is now. The history of Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin.

What Tom knows about Harry is separated into two categories. There is the Harry he lives with, the boy that he knows as his friend. There is also the Harry of before, the boy with ghosts of the past that haunt him.

Harry is skilled with Silencing Charms and keeping his door locked, but he is not perfect. Tom has caught snatches of those high, gasping screams that call into the night. If Tom was to ask about them, Harry would claim they were nothing because that’s who Harry is. Harry is not someone who burdens others on his own behalf. Harry thinks of others first, then himself.

“Harry?”

Harry holds out an apple slice slathered in peanut butter. Tom smiles. Though it’s not what he meant, he takes it anyways and asks, “What is your favourite part of living here?”

“Oh.” Harry’s head cants to the side, like he’s listening for something. “I’m not sure. The quiet, maybe?”

Tom chews on his apple slice and wipes his sticky fingers on a napkin. If he’s patient, Harry will say more. Harry takes his time before he speaks on serious matters, and his words are worth the wait.

“Hogwarts was my favourite place in the world to live,” Harry says after a moment. “I called it my home because I _felt_ at home there. I’d never had anywhere else to call home, not really. I’d never had a place where—where people wanted me there. So Hogwarts was a school and a home. Hogwarts was safe.” Harry’s gaze goes misty, distant. He looks out at the fields and the forest, at the star-sprinkled sky above their heads. “It _was_ safe. And even when it wasn’t, it was worth fighting for.”

Tom rubs his palms over his trousers. “And will you go back there, after all this? If you can.”

“I’d like to. I’d like to finish and graduate.” Harry leans back onto his elbows, face tipped towards the moon. “But Hogwarts isn’t the only place I think of, anymore, when I think of home.” The moonlight glances off Harry’s glasses, blinding Tom from the sight of green eyes. “This place is my first real house. My first _real_ home.”

Tom feels drawn to those words. His chest is aching. Harry knows how he feels. Harry knows _exactly_ how he feels and is able to put it into words. Hogwarts had been their home for so long; it is a place Tom had felt he truly belonged in. But how much of the world have they seen? Is Hogwarts the best, or is it merely the best of what they’ve known? The expanse of the world is massive. The scope of the universe is endless. More than five decades of time had kept him and Harry apart. Tom never could have predicted this life for them, yet here they are.

“I do, too,” Tom says. “I think of this place as our home.” It is theirs. They’ve called it home over the past year or so, but this is the first time they’ve acknowledged the meaning of that word, the significance of what it means to _have_ a home.

“When I lived with my relatives…” Harry’s voice falters. “They weren’t the best people.”

Tom’s gathered that much based on the way Harry talks around the subject. Harry hates talking about his Muggle relatives. He shrinks away from it, averts his eyes, does anything he can to redirect the conversation.

“You won’t have to live with them ever again. _Never_ again,” Tom says with vehemence. Such vehemence that Harry’s head snaps in his direction, eyes wide. “Just like I won’t have to go back to Wool’s. Even after the wards fall, we will have each other. We will have this house. No one else can take this from us, Harry. I wouldn’t let them.”

Harry’s mouth drops open, just a little. He struggles with his words for a long minute. Then he says, “I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize that I wouldn’t have to go back.” Harry’s voice is full of wonder. “I mean, I knew but—” He breaks off and gives his head a shake. “It never felt real.”

Tom feels smug. “You don’t have to go back.”

“I don’t,” Harry repeats. His limbs unfurl like a blooming flower, expanding into the space around him. “I don’t have to go back.” 

Tom watches with interest as Harry’s hands tap a restless pattern on the roof tiles, a soft tap-tap that is hardly audible over the gentle winds blowing by them. Tom wants to grab those fingers, to still their anxious movements with his own hand.

Harry breathes out. A silver mist passes from between his lips and into the air. “What was it like at Wool’s? What… what were the rooms like?”

“They were small. We had to share. It was horrible and I hated it.” The rooms at Hogwarts are a violent contrast to the coarse, uncomfortable bedding at Wool’s. No doubt Tom was expected to be grateful for it, but he could not help his bitterness. If his magical heritage permitted him the luxury of Hogwarts, then why was he forced back into poverty every passing summer?

Harry nods as though the answer is expected. He breathes out again, slower this time. “When I was a kid, my aunt and uncle made me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. I didn’t get my own room until I was twelve years old.”

Harry speaks so plainly that Tom is stunned for a passing moment. Then Tom recalls, vividly, the start of their time together here. He had accused Harry of being a pureblooded brat. “I’m sorry, Harry. You didn’t deserve that. You’re better than they are, worthless Muggles.” Tom clenches his fists, then forces his hands to relax. “They deserve to pay for what they did to you, then.” 

Visions flash through Tom’s mind like a hazy waking dream. A dream where he arrives at Harry’s relatives’ and steals a younger Harry away from the cupboard. Tom will be the older one, of course. He’ll be able to do magic, he’ll have money, and he’ll be well-dressed. This is a dream where Harry looks to _him_ as the saviour. Tom imagines Harry’s eyes wide with surprise and admiration, gazing up at him with adoration and worship—

Harry shrugs. “It’s over now. I think that’s the best outcome I could have asked for, really.”

Normally, Tom would suggest revenge. Surely once they’re free of these wards they can hunt Harry’s relatives down and make them hurt for what they’d done. Only what Harry has said is true. They are here together. They don’t need any other people. They have left the past behind. Harry has saved him, and in doing so, Harry has saved himself, too.

“This is the best outcome,” Tom agrees, and this time he caves to his impulse, sliding carefully across the ceramic tiles and placing his hand atop Harry's. Harry’s fingers twitch, jerking as though to pull away, but Tom presses down, gently, holding Harry in place like a moth to a board.

In the near-darkness, it is more difficult to make out the expression on Harry’s face. Is Harry’s flushed face a result of the breeze, or is it from the touch of Tom’s hand?

“Tom?” Harry’s voice is a whisper.

“Thank you for saving me,” Tom says, just as softly. “I promise you that you won’t regret it.”

Harry yanks his hand away, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then he seems to regret his hasty action as he glances down at the gap between them. “I—sorry,” Harry says, stumbling over the words. “You don’t have to thank me for that. I would have done it because it was the right thing to do.”

Tom is impassive to Harry’s stuttering. “You didn’t have to, but you did. I’m still grateful.” Should he reach out again? Would Harry still pull away from him?

Harry smiles, hesitant, ducking his head down. Then he gives Tom’s hand a quick pat. “Don’t feel like you owe me or anything, though.”

Tom eyes the fringe of hair that hangs across Harry’s forehead. The slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw. The way Harry’s shirt collar hangs open at the neck, exposing the warm skin there. Tom isn’t the only one changing under these wards. Harry is changing, too. Harry is growing confidence here. Harry is safe and happy here with _him._

He doesn’t owe Harry anything, but Harry will soon understand what it means to have Tom Riddle on his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will (possibly) cover years three and four. we'll have to see how it goes while i write it. thank you again to everyone following this story!! i really enjoy this tom and harry together. your thoughts and love are greatly appreciated <3


	9. Year Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything about Harry calms him. The sound of Harry’s voice at the end of the day, its syllables slurred with mild exhaustion and softened by uninhibited fondness. The cheerful presence of Harry in the forest as they chase each other, his wild laughter setting Tom’s heart aflame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Harry finishes his bedroom mural. Tom struggles to sort through his feelings about their current situation. The peaceful pace of their life grants him time to think about his relationship with Harry. As the two boys grow closer, Tom grows increasingly interested in his housemate. Eventually, Harry finally opens up to Tom; he tells Tom about his life with the Dursleys. This is what tips Tom over into stronger feelings of affection.
> 
> * * *
> 
> brief note here that during the scene at the end of this chapter, tom is sixteen and a few months, and harry is a few months off from being eighteen. this is not an explicit story, but if a relationship with that age gap bugs you, this is a just a friendly warning.

The curious thing about time is that every day feels similar. Without the regular schedule of classes and exams to guide him, Tom feels adrift. Sometimes he imagines he is walking on a long road that slopes upwards by the tiniest of degrees. He can walk for kilometers and not notice a difference. It is only when he looks back does he realize the point where he had begun is no longer in sight.

This metaphor also applies to how Tom feels about Harry. Their gradual ascent to friendship has been hardwon. Tom struggles with managing his thoughts and impulses even on a good day, but with Harry it’s easier. Harry is so open with him, so honest. Tom has no reason to lie or manipulate with ill intentions.

On one of Tom’s good days, he and Harry set their blue picnic blanket out in the middle of the field and watch the clouds. They tend to fall asleep under the warmth of the summer sun. When Harry’s breathing has dropped off into the slow, deep pace that signifies sleep, Tom will reach over and settle his hand atop Harry’s so he can feel the soft skin and sturdy bones. Today may present that opportunity if Tom is attentive enough. If he is patient enough.

Tom never had much reason to touch other people before arriving here. Handshakes and shoulder grips made up a majority of his physical interactions. There had certainly never been an urge in him to hold hands with anyone. Harry has woken up this odd feeling in him, this strange inclination towards physical contact. In Tom’s mind, caring has always been a weakness, but this is no longer wholly true.

At Wool’s, wishing for parents to adopt him had never led anywhere—if Tom wanted something for himself, then he had to fetch it by himself. There were no friends or adults or parents who would do it for him. Now, however, he can see the value of reciprocation. He understands the appeal of caring about someone who cares for him in return. Not an action that ought to be taken with everyone, but again, Harry makes it easy.

Their night on the rooftop had opened the gate that was previously shut; Harry now talks about his time at the Dursley’s. Harry talks about his cousin, his aunt, his uncle. He talks about chores and threats and never having anything of his own. Tom listens with a sympathetic ear, but his imagination is running amuck in his mind’s eye. If given the chance, he would destroy Harry’s relatives. He would leave their house a smoldering wreck, the cupboard under the stairs burnt to ashes while he cradles a trembling Harry in his arms.

“I wish we had met sooner,” Tom says. “When we were younger.” He picks at a loose thread on his trousers, then frowns. He’s been outgrowing his clothes faster than he can catch it happening—his ankles are currently visible in the gap between the hem of his trousers and the start of his socks.

Harry stretches out, leaning on his elbows as he stares at the sky. Even now, Harry is rather skinny for a seventeen year old. He’s not much taller than Tom is; Tom suspects he will catch up with Harry very soon.

If they were at Hogwarts, would Harry be the Head Boy? Dumbledore must have favoured Harry, who is, by most standards, a golden Gryffindor. Tom finds that this favouritism doesn’t bother him anymore because he knows, now, that they both distrust Dumbledore. It doesn’t matter what Dumbledore thinks of either of them so long as they are united in their dislike.

“Imagine if we met at Wool’s,” Harry says. “Do you think we would have been friends?”

“Yes.” They would have discovered each other no matter what. “We’d both still be wizards, wouldn’t we?”

“Oh, hm. That’s true. But if we weren’t wizards, then would we?”

“Of course.” Tom squints. “We’re not friends because we have magic. Don’t be stupid.”

Harry hums in response. Tom lets the silence hold and flops back down onto the blanket, clasping his hands over his chest and closing his eyes, allowing the sun to heat his face. His breathing goes slow and steady as he lies there, warm and comfortable. Tom indulges himself in a daydream, in a fantasy where Harry lives with him at Wool’s and they are roommates. They talk to the snakes in the yard and play toy soldiers in their room. They grow up together.

Some minutes or hours later, Tom wakes to Harry’s hand shaking his shoulder. Tom blinks several times, disoriented. Harry’s face is looming over him, eyes crinkled and the corners of his lips tipping upwards into a smile. The collar of Harry’s shirt is a little crooked, Tom notes. It is folded poorly.

Without thinking, Tom reaches for Harry’s shirt collar and tucks the flap down. Harry freezes at the sudden touch, but he stays close, close enough for Tom to gaze into the flecks of hazel that dot Harry’s eyes. Harry’s body heat radiates across the space between them, more potent than the sun. More addictive. Tom wants to pull Harry on top of him and feel the solid weight of Harry’s body against his. He covets. He _hungers._

“We should go in for dinner,” Harry says, embarrassed.

Tom is fifteen. He will be sixteen come December. He’s not of age but he knows what he wants—his conviction carries him, sustains him. Tom sits up, bumping into Harry as he does so. Tom is purposeful, determined. Harry jolts back, confused, blinking rapidly.

“Sorry,” Tom says. He’s not sorry. He’d meant to do it. He places a hand on Harry’s chest to steady himself, then shuffles back, putting a bit of space between them. “You’re right. Let’s go back inside.”

Harry doesn’t comment on the physical contact, but Tom catches flashes of Harry’s questioning gaze throughout the remainder of the evening. It means something. It means—

It means Harry notices him. Harry watches him, pays attention to him. Maybe that is what it means to be happy. All Tom wants is for Harry to look at him forever. 

* * *

Tom has read through nearly all the books in the house, including the Muggle ones. In a few more months, he will be finished with Hogwarts’ seventh year curriculum. Lately, Tom has even slowed his pace so he can work in synchrony with Harry. Harry moves through topics with his usual, unhurried methods, but Tom understands Harry better now, so he can acknowledge Harry's desire to work through subjects at a regular rate. Tom can even understand Harry’s insistence on ‘fun’ breaks.

At Wool’s, fun consisted of playing tricks on the other orphans, putting them in their place, watching them dance to his machinations. Here under the wards, spending time with Harry is fun. Harry is plenty interesting. Tom doesn’t mind the board games or the idle chatter. He likes to add bits and pieces of knowledge to the construct of Harry in his mind. He likes the moment when an action or kind word falls into place in his mind.

Tom is learning much about the subject of Harry Potter through observation and experimentation. Harry is very complex, which is fine. Once Tom does run out of reading material, all he will have to occupy his mind is Harry.

Well, no. That is not _entirely_ true. Tom also has ideas for magical experimentation. After all of his voracious reading, Tom has drawn up endless concepts for new spells and potions he plans to create. It is exciting, certainly, but what is most important is that he is no longer afraid of stagnation. There are new ways forward, new things to discover.

Unsurprisingly, Harry proves to be a beautiful fount of encouragement. Tom explains what he wants to do, and Harry provides him feedback. Harry provides valuable resistance, provides a counterweight to Tom’s arrogant, impulsive nature. Their banter is an effortless flow that sparks Tom’s inspiration into overdrive. Tom loves it. He loves how they make each other better.

How easy would it be to conquer the world with Harry by his side? How perfect are they for each other?

Spurred by this, Tom convinces Harry to practice spells with him out in the large field. The familiar rush of their combined magic runs through him, swirling elation in his chest. He wonders if there are more limits to push, more tests to try. Harry obliges all his requests, anyhow, so they can take their time with it all. It certainly feels as though they have all the time in the world.

Tom wishes the two of them could stay like this forever, wrapped up in each other, together for all of eternity. They won’t be here forever, though. When they leave the wards, Harry might _leave_ _him,_ but Tom can’t bear to think of that. So he doesn’t, he doesn’t think about any of it. 

When Tom lies in bed, unable to sleep, he pushes aside the fear and finds comfort in his fantasies—he dredges up his old dreams of wealth and power and drowns his mind in them. Dreams that used to involve only him have been carved out to make room for two.

In these dreams, he and Harry are unstoppable. Tom secures their place at the head of magical Britain so that Harry can have everything his Muggle relatives never gave him. Everything that Tom also went without, they will share because they deserve it. Everything they accomplish, they will do so together. 

* * *

Tom trims with precision and delicacy, watching as the dark tufts of hair fall to the tiled floor.

While watching Tom’s movements, Harry’s eyes had been open and curious, but eventually he had grown sleepy and his eyelids had drooped. Tom rubs his fingers into Harry’s scalp, dislodging any loose hairs, taking his time to make the experience enjoyable… pleasurable, even. Harry now has his eyes closed and is breathing deeply while Tom works.

Despite its perpetual disarray, Harry’s hair is soft under Tom’s touch. Tom can bury his hand in the fluff of it, the strands coiled around his fingers like silken vines. 

“Nearly done,” Tom murmurs. He doesn’t want to stop, and he wonders if Harry feels the same. When the deed is done, the extent of this intimate contact will also be finished, and Tom will have to resume his restraint. He’ll have to pause, to hold himself back from reaching out without plausible reason.

Brushing a few stray hairs aside, Tom examines his handiwork. He is nothing if not a perfectionist. He has learned from his previous errors, and he has honed his craft to an art form.

“Perfect,” Tom declares, reverent, and sets his hand down upon Harry’s shoulder, close to the neck. Tom tucks his fingers into the hollow of the collarbone, warmth pulsing against this hand.

“Thanks.” Harry’s voice is rougher than usual. His eyes are fixed on the mirror, on where they are touching.

Tom wishes they would touch more often, but Harry is so cautious, so fragile—like a butterfly or a moth. If Tom presses too hard, he will crush those delicate wings. He will ruin his chance. 

So Tom must be patient. He must wait. He will court Harry to his side in all other ways, so that when the time comes, there will be no doubt in Harry’s mind what they can become together.

* * *

Everything about Harry calms him. The sound of Harry’s voice at the end of the day, its syllables slurred with mild exhaustion and softened by uninhibited fondness. The cheerful presence of Harry in the forest as they chase each other, his wild laughter setting Tom’s heart aflame.

Tom forgoes use of his magic more and more during their games of pursuit. His magic is used only to mislead and to disguise his presence. His intention is no longer to incapacitate. His new goal is to subdue. Tom crafts battle plans so he can catch Harry off-guard, tackle him to the ground, and whisper in his ear—

_“Got you.”_

It’s a mockery of possession, of ownership, but Tom purrs inwardly all the same. He revels in the heat of contact, in the erratic noise of Harry’s panting breaths and the staccato of their wildly-beating hearts. The firm feel of Harry’s chest under his hand, the press of Harry’s hips against his own. The urge to roll their bodies in unison.

Harry suspects Tom’s intentions. How could he not? Tom has been almost crude with his advances. The flush of dark colour across Harry’s face speaks to the attraction Tom knows is mutual. Harry has feelings for him. Harry wants him. There is only the matter of leaping over the flimsy boundary of friendship and pushing past the propriety that prevents Harry from succumbing to his desires and consummating their bond.

Tom has never been patient, but Harry is… worth waiting for. The slow build of their relationships satisfies something deep inside of him. Tom likes knowing that Harry’s affections have been gently teased out, that the smile on Harry’s lips is something he has worked for. Harry would not be nearly as interesting if he was easy to court.

Harry shies away from a lot of the physical contact Tom tries to initiate. He jerks backwards, his motions hesitant, like he’s a skittish kitten and unused to being touched. All this is also new territory to Tom, but Tom has never been one to deny himself. In this case, his momentary discomfort is far outweighed by his pleasure.

Pleasure comes in many forms, some of them smaller than expected. Every morning, Tom adjusts Harry’s shirt collar. The first morning he had done so, Harry blushed so hard that it spread down to his neck. The day after that, Harry made a point to wear a shirt without a collar. Tom did not comment on it, did not even raise a brow—he was, as he had decided to be, patient. 

The _next_ day, Harry went back to wearing a collared shirt. His lips were set into a mild pout as Tom approached him, but he did not move away or tell Tom to stop. So Tom continued with his delicate ministrations, enthralled by the non-explicit permission he’d been given.

Now the tender adjustment of clothing is a habit. It is a normal part of their routine. Harry blushes every time; Tom doesn’t tire of it. Tom plucks leaves out of Harry’s hair and bumps ankles with Harry under the table. He has never felt more alive. His entire body thrums with energy when he is in Harry’s presence.

It is no longer only their magic that harmonizes, he decides. They have grown beyond that. Sometimes, Tom feels as though their souls are aligned.

* * *

The large calendar in the living room is running out of empty days. Harry says he has another one for when this one is finally done, but Tom doesn’t care much. His list of reasons for counting the days is short. Birthdays are one reason. Taking care of the preservation spells is another. But the meaning of time is so distant from them now—Tom suspects that Harry is only fastidious with tracking out of misplaced anxiety rather than an actual desire to know that it is a Tuesday.

“Four years is next,” Harry says as he flips through the paper calendar. His voice lifts up at the end as he rubs at the back of his neck; a tick that Tom recognizes as a sign of suppressed worry. “Can you believe it?”

“I can. Think of everything that has changed, Harry.” 

Harry sets the calendar back on the mantle. Tom takes that as his cue to step closer so that he is standing just behind Harry’s shoulder. “You’re right, I reckon. It just feels strange to say it aloud. Four whole years.”

Tom would shrug if Harry was facing him, but he isn’t, so Tom can only settle for a vague noise of agreement. “I imagine it is strange for you, given your schooling is complete.” Harry is going to be eighteen soon enough. If not for the wards, if not for Tom, he would be a Hogwarts graduate.

Harry drops his eyes to the empty fireplace. “Yeah.” The word is soft, sad.

Tom curses silently and takes one last step in Harry’s direction so that his chest is mere centimeters from Harry’s back. They are the same height, now. Tom imagines himself pulling Harry into his arms. Harry would find comfort in his embrace, would forget all about the sadness of missing his old friends and his old life. They have a new life here together that they can enjoy; Tom’s greatest wish is for Harry to accept that.

“Harry?” he asks.

Harry goes still, like he can sense the hidden urgency in Tom’s voice. Just like that, the moment becomes charged. The air between them is full of all the unspoken hopes and dreams Tom has nursed in his head over the past two years or so.

Tom drifts closer. He presses his front against Harry’s right shoulder blade. He leans in under the guise of examining the messy rows of black ink Harry has scrawled over the days that have gone by, then says, “You’re not upset with me, are you?”

Harry whirls around in confusion, bumping into Tom as he does so. “What? No! Why would you say that?”

Tom had planned his manipulation in advance. He had thought long and hard on how he would convince Harry to leave the past behind. Harry will feel bad about upsetting him. Harry will feel bad that his fixation on the past is harming their current relationship. Harry will repent, even if it is painful.

The pain won’t last, anyways. Tom will soothe it away. If he can give Harry enough, then Harry will never have a reason to leave him.

Tom knows what he needs to say to make his vision come true, but why is it suddenly so hard? His throat is as dry as sandpaper. His hands are sweating uselessly at his sides. Harry is watching him with those wide, concerned eyes. He must, he must say it.

Tom clears his throat and forces his lines out. “I know you miss your friends and your godfather. I know you are only here because of me.”

Harry’s face falls, the shadow of guilt passing over it like a dark storm cloud. Tom’s stomach twists and clenches at the sight.

“I—I don’t mean for you to feel that way, Tom. I’m sorry. It’s nothing to do with you, I promise.”

Oh, but it has _everything_ in the world to do with him. Tom sees their situation clearly: so long as Harry remains attached to his past, he will never look to his future. His future with Tom. Perhaps his words to Harry have a grain of truth to them after all. Even after everything they’ve been through together, Harry has yet to choose this life. Has yet to choose Tom.

Harry had agreed to saving Tom’s life, had gone to the past out of moral obligation, had continued on this path because it was easier to. Harry’s godfather is dead, and so Harry had committed to Tom out of grief and desperation. Harry might care for him, might feel affection for him, but it is nowhere near the level that Tom feels in return. 

This is the fear that Tom does not acknowledge—that for all their talk of friendship and compatibility, the center of his relationship with Harry is based only on _circumstance._ If there were any other options, Harry would have gone another route, any other route. He would not have chosen to be here otherwise.

“Harry,” he tries to get out the words, avoiding the heavy weight in his chest, “I understand that. I do. I would understand if you were mad at me.”

“I’m not,” Harry protests, frowning. “I’m not mad, Tom, really I’m not—”

Harry cuts himself off mid-sentence. His eyes remain wide with shock. Tom takes a step back, unthinking; he is sick with distress at the idea of Harry rejecting him. Leaving him behind when the wards fall. There are subtle tremors in his limbs and complicated knots buried deep in his chest. Tom wants Harry to turn around again. He doesn’t want Harry to witness his weakness and his lack of self-control.

The careful script Tom had planned has fled from his mind. Tom holds his body still, stops the conflicting emotions from affecting his nerves. He is withdrawing from the situation. He is finding safety inside of himself. He is drawing his mental shields up in an attempt to escape those beautiful green eyes—

Harry stumbles half a step forward, braces his hands on Tom’s shoulders, and _kisses_ him.

The world spins. Tom gasps against Harry’s mouth. It is his first kiss, messy and wet. His teeth bump against Harry’s in a clumsy collision that vibrates through him right down to the soles of his feet.

Tom seizes Harry’s arms and walks them backwards until Harry is pressed against the wall, breathing hard and blinking rapidly at him. His glasses are slightly askew. Tom licks his lips and reaches up, adjusting the frames, then leans slowly in to brush his mouth against Harry’s in a light, open-mouthed kiss.

Harry makes a soft sound of surprise and clutches at Tom’s waist, his thumbs pressing into Tom’s sides, anchoring him. Their foreheads touch. Tom allows his eyes to fall shut as he inhales deeply, the familiar scent of Harry’s sweat and skin calming him. His kisses Harry again. Harry kisses him back, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. Tom is burning inside, heat flushing his face and stirring unnameable emotions in his gut. He kisses harder, determined for Harry to understand the depth of what he feels.

They kiss for some time. Tom savours every second of it, nuzzles against Harry’s cheeks, brushes tender lips against the bridge of Harry’s nose and the line of Harry’s jaw. He keeps his eyes mostly closed, afraid to open them, afraid to dispel the surreality of the moment. Harry says nothing, only holds him the entire time, hands sliding up to cradle Tom’s back in a firm embrace.

When Tom has finally exhausted himself, he pulls back enough to open his eyes and focus on Harry for the first time in… minutes? Hours? Harry is a vision: lips slightly swollen, cheeks stained with red, hair dishevelled from Tom’s touch.

“You’re crying,” Harry murmurs, breathless and full of wonder. 

Tom opens his mouth to ask Harry what that is supposed to mean. He touches at his cheek to refute the statement, but his fingers come away damp. Tom blinks and his vision clears somewhat. The moisture is mostly dry, but—

“I’m… not.”

Harry smiles, a light tilt of the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. I won’t tell.”

Tom stares at Harry, waiting for the laughter, waiting for the punchline of the joke.

Harry’s eyes are crinkled on the sides, so fond that it hurts. Tom feels the awful ache of his heart in his chest, a pounding affliction that beats his insides black and blue. Harry reaches out and threads their fingers together. The callouses on Harry’s hand are rough but grounding. The turbulence in Tom settles, the violent ocean waves now a serene expanse of clear blue water.

“I want you here with me,” Harry says. His voice is off. Emotion is creeping in at the edges. “And I want to be here with you.”

Tom hesitates with his response. This is everything he’s hoped for, only now he doesn’t know what to say.

A second passes. Tom’s throat is clogged with the severity of what he feels, with what he doesn’t know _how_ to feel. He doesn’t know what to say, but he must reply somehow, so—

Tom lifts their joined hands and brushes a kiss against the top of Harry’s knuckles, dragging his mouth along the soft skin there. It is a stark contrast to the warm, dry palm pressed against his hand.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat, but he does not pull away.

Harry does not pull away the next day, either. 

Or the next.

Or the next—

Tom kisses Harry every day. He is ridiculously, stupidly happy. One of the caretakers at Wool’s used to say that hands were meant for holding. Tom wonders, idly, if his hands had simply been waiting for Harry’s all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhhhhhhhh i lost my shit several times while writing this chapter, so i expect y'all to do the same thing -squints-
> 
> if harry seems a bit passive towards the end it's because he's also drowning in guilt haha oops uh next chapter should be romance followed by "betrayal" (this is not a surprise, right? it's not? harry has to confess eventually sdjkgsdlhkhk)
> 
> i hope you are all doing well!!


	10. Year Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are safe here,” Tom says quietly. “I will never hurt you, Harry. I swear it. You’ve nothing to fear from me. I will cherish you as you deserve to be cherished.” He kisses the crown of Harry’s head. “This is our home—when we are with each other. Even when we leave this place, that will never change.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> previously:
> 
> Tom begins to direct his relationship with Harry towards romance. All their regular interactions are now overlaid with tones of intimacy. Harry notices but is reluctant to engage; Tom remains patient. Tom feels possessive of Harry, but he is willing to wait for Harry to come to him. Eventually, Tom's prompting leads to success—Harry initiates and kisses him.

It doesn’t take long for Tom to tip their relationship into debauchery. This tension between them has been building on _both_ sides, Tom decides, because when they kiss, the desire in Harry’s eyes is plain to see. Tom is aware he is handsome; he has grown out of the boyish features most adults considered ‘cute’. His voice deepens, his face sharpens. He flashes Harry a seductive smile and is rewarded with the most beautiful smile in return.

Harry is shy, hesitant to do more, but Tom is charming and nothing if not determined. Tom flirts shamelessly, he goes out of his way to kiss and touch whenever Harry permits him. A kiss to the temple, a touch of their hands together. On evenings where they stay indoors, Tom settles himself on the loveseat next to Harry and tangles their legs together, pressing his face into Harry’s soft hair.

Tom makes clear where his boundaries are—namely, that they don’t exist when it comes to Harry—and waits. When Harry finally initiates, it is all the sweeter.

After the first night Harry’s room goes empty, Tom wakes to Harry curled against him, head resting on his shoulder, arms wrapped around Tom’s ribs in a loose hug. They should always share a bed, Tom thinks. It feels nice, having someone with him in the morning. Harry’s sleep-softened face blinks blearily in greeting when Tom pecks him on the forehead.

“I didn’t take you to be a cuddler,” Harry mumbles, but he is happy. He _sounds_ happy.

Tom smiles at his lover—that is a word they can use, now—and strokes sweat-matted strands of hair back from Harry’s face.

Harry flops back down, turns his head to the side so he can nose against Tom’s neck. Tom caresses Harry’s shoulder while Harry goes back to dozing. His room is calm and peaceful, filled only with the rough noise of Harry’s snoring. Tom eyes the faint littering of scars that stretch down Harry’s back, all of them various levels of faded, and swears he’ll memorize them all.

And so it goes: Harry’s body is a new field for him to study—there are nerves to tease, skin to touch and taste. Tom likes to leave marks, little proofs of their union’s permanency pressed into Harry’s tan skin. He scrapes his teeth along the column of Harry’s throat and mouths at Harry’s collarbones until he sees purple. He knows where all his marks are, and so he knows where to press the next day, even when Harry’s hidden them with clothes.

Harry is jumpy to start with. He twitches violently the first time Tom’s wandering hands prod lightly at the bruise on this neck. After repeated instances, however, Harry relaxes at Tom’s touch. He learns that the touch is not harmful. Then, much to Tom’s delight, the negative reaction is replaced with the gorgeous sight of Harry’s face flushing whenever Tom wordlessly reminds him of their illicit activities.

They use their hands and mouths, mostly—they’ve yet to go further, handicapped by their inexperience, but Tom’s certain they’ll push past that. They’ll learn with each other. Tom whispers promises of devotion against the shell of Harry’s ear as he works them both to completion, he swallows down Harry’s cries of pleasure so that he might absorb the rawness of Harry’s voice into his very soul.

Sometimes Harry will catch him by surprise. He’ll come up from behind and wrap Tom in a hug. Tom remains unaccustomed to casual displays of affection. Everything he does is deliberate and calculated. If he wants to touch, then he thinks on the best way to go about it. 

What will produce the best reaction? What will get him the reaction he wants?

Harry touches freely and smiles whenever Tom so much as glances his way. These are not actions that Harry puts thought behind. Tom is fairly sure of that. Harry does not anticipate any result when he acts; Harry engages on impulse. He tousles Tom’s hair and kisses the freckles that line Tom’s cheeks and arms. He drapes himself over Tom like a woolen jumper and teases Tom to distraction with his snarky comments.

On lazy afternoons out in the fields, Tom melts like butter under Harry’s hand. Harry scratches fiendish fingers against Tom’s scalp and takes pride in watching Tom become a boneless puddle.

“Like a giant cat,” Harry says fondly.

Tom might not purr, but he does hum in response, and Harry seems to like that, too. 

Harry gives and gives and gives, sweet and endless with the richness of his virtuous heart. Tom is eager to take, to possess that which has ensnared him so entirely. He wants to see Harry dressed in his clothes. He wants to see the beautiful cloak Harry had gifted him resting on those sloping shoulders and nothing more. 

Harry covered in his bedsheets in the golden hour of early morning is perhaps the loveliest vision in the world. Tom burns the memory into his mind, commits to learning every curve of the navy sheets draped over Harry’s spine and hips. All the dips and shadows that form the body he sleeps with every night.

Tom murmurs into Harry’s skin, hoping his words will stay there as he presses them in with the warmth of his lips, traces the syllables with his tongue—

_Mine. Forever._

* * *

Now that they are close, as close as two people can be, Tom feels confident enough to pester Harry with more personal questions. Everything he has only ever analyzed and speculated over can now be confirmed into reality.

“What did you think of me when we first met?”

“What I thought?” Harry’s forehead wrinkles up. His eyes scrunch, too. “I sort of knew about you before I met you, Tom.”

“Yes, yes.” Tom waves it off impatiently. “But that is not the same as meeting in person.”

They are standing on the porch bench staring out at the chicken coop. Hyperion is scouting the perimeter of the fence, ostensibly looking for ‘predators’, though Tom is certain the snake’s true intention is to frighten the chickens. Not that many of the chickens are afraid of him anymore; most of them have grown used to his presence and are doubly reassured by the way he fawns over Cluckers.

“Well,” Harry says, lips pursed, “I thought you were fussy. Like an angry cat. Or maybe an angry chicken is a better metaphor here, now that you’ve convinced me of their hidden capacity for evil.”

Tom narrows his eyes, then decides to take Harry’s statement as a compliment. He sidles over and tucks Harry into his embrace, brushing his lips against Harry’s cheek. “Capacity for evil?” he asks in a low voice. 

Harry huffs, but he squirms in Tom’s grasp, obviously flustered. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Tom noses along Harry’s jaw, pressing his hand down on Harry’s hip, pinning him in place. “What does that say about _you,_ love?”

Harry’s chest strains against Tom’s arm. The moment stretches on long enough to become awkward, long enough for Tom’s heart to thump loudly with worry.

“Harry?”

Harry slowly rotates and plants his face into Tom’s shoulder. His hand settles on the nape of Tom’s neck, pressing down, smoothing the hairs there. The gesture is unexpectedly tender. Tom swallows down the sudden apprehension that bubbles up in his throat.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles. “I just—” He shakes his head once, then lifts it so he can meet Tom’s eyes. “Sorry,” he repeats.

Tom frowns, drawing his arms tighter around Harry, wanting to chase the melancholy from that soft voice. Harry has not experienced many nightmares since they began sharing a bed, but sometimes he wakes with a strangled scream. Tom goes to comfort him, of course. He holds Harry through the tremors of terror and tells him it is alright. He tells Harry that he understands the fear. The world is a cruel, terrible place, but they are _safe_ now. Harry is safe with him.

Tom exhales slowly and unlocks his jaw. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

If anyone ought to be sorry, it’s him. Had he said something wrong? Had he inadvertently triggered some reminder of Harry’s past? Tom doesn’t like _not knowing._ If there are bad memories left, Tom wishes to vanquish them. He will purge every vile event of Harry’s past and pour himself into the resulting void until all Harry thinks about—all Harry _needs_ —is him.

Tom gathers Harry closer to his body, determined to uncover the source of Harry’s discomfort. His hands feel cold and clammy, not quite shaking, but he smooths his palm over Harry’s back, spreading his fingers along the line of Harry’s spine. Harry will not notice his unease. Harry will accept the affection offered and feel happier because of it.

“You are safe here,” Tom says quietly. “I will never hurt you, Harry. I swear it. You’ve nothing to fear from me. I will cherish you as you deserve to be cherished.” He kisses the crown of Harry’s head. “This is our home—when we are with each other. Even when we leave this place, that will never change.”

Harry ducks his head a second time. “Tom, I—”

When Harry doesn’t continue, Tom prompts, “Yes?”

Harry looks back up. His gaze is troubled, but after a moment’s focus, it clears. “I just… I want you to know that I love you.”

Tom breathes out, lets the statement sink into his bones.

“I love you, Harry.”

He says the words with ease, without pause for consideration of their truth. For Tom, the logic of the situation is clear: Harry loves him, and so this is what he must say in return. Regardless of his feelings, regardless of the love he may or may not house inside of him, Harry deserves better than hesitation. Harry deserves reciprocation and reassurance.

Harry’s breathing stutters with heaviness, with the devoutness of his heart presented in its entirety to Tom. The heart Tom now holds is the most precious of all that he owns. The love that shines in those green eyes is irreplicable, irreplaceable. Tom takes care of what belongs to him, and he takes care of Harry, too. In this way, he will look after the heart he has been so beautifully given, for there has never been a moment where he considered doing otherwise.

“I love you,” Tom repeats. He pulls off Harry’s glasses, setting them carefully into the front pocket of Harry’s shirt. Then he kisses Harry’s closed eyelids, the tip of his nose, the soft, open part of his lips.

Harry starts to cry. Silent, shaking tears that stream down his face as he clings to Tom’s shirt, burying himself away, soaking the fabric with tears and snot. Tom is alarmed and confused, but Harry is not pulling away, so the problem here is not him. The problem must be something else.

“Everything is fine,” Tom tries, frustrated. “I’m here. I love you.”

Harry doesn’t respond. Tom sinks them both to the ground so he can cradle Harry properly in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, the watery tone of his voice is miserable. He takes his glasses back out of his pocket and shoves them clumsily onto his face. “You must think I’m overreacting.”

“I don’t know what’s upset you. How can I judge it as an overreaction when you won’t _tell_ me?” Tom hears the accusatory edge of his own words before his sentence finishes.

Harry winces at the harsh tone. Tom doesn’t blame him.

“Sorry,” Harry repeats. He rubs at his face and starts to pull away.

Tom tightens his grip and blows out a gust of air in an attempt to dispel his irritation. “Stop saying that.”

“I—I need some space. To think.” Harry stands up anyways, sliding his hands along Tom’s outstretched arms. “I need to be alone for a while.” His hands halt on Tom’s wrists, holding them in midair.

The rejection hurts more than it should. On some level, Tom is aware of the dependence they have on each other. They are the only two people here; Harry is all he thinks about. It follows that he should be the center of Harry’s world, too. He wants to live in Harry’s waking thoughts, in his dreams.

“This doesn’t change anything between us,” Harry says into the silence. He releases Tom’s hands and takes a step back. “This is just me.”

Harry is upset and suffering. Harry is shutting him out.

“Harry, I can _help_ you. If you simply tell me what’s bothering you—”

“No, Tom, just—not right now, okay?” Harry grits his teeth and breaks eye contact.

Tom feels something shrivel up inside of him. His head is pounding so loudly that he can hardly hear himself think. He is angry, he realizes. Anger is an emotion he has not felt this strongly in months. It takes long, long seconds for him to steady his breathing, for the urge to grab his wand to die. “Fine. Go, then. Enjoy your time _alone.”_ Tom pulls himself to his feet, shaking off the indignity of kneeling on the floor. “I’ll be in my room.”

His room, not theirs. He ought to remember that. Tom stalks back into the house and up the stairs, leaving Harry behind on the porch. He does not look back. 

Once in his room, he sees the bedsheets are unmade, rumpled from the morning they had spent together. Tom fastidiously tidies it all. He flattens the sheets and tucks in the corners. Then he stares at the bed, knowing that if he lies down upon it, he’ll be assaulted with the scents pressed into the cotton. His wand sits heavy in his pocket. One Freshening Charm would vanish it all away, only his arms refuse to move.

Perhaps coming here had not been the best idea after all. There are too many reminders of Harry’s mark on his life, too many memories of their time together.

Tom scowls. The melodrama of the situation is not lost on him. Here he is, acting out the role of the spurned lover, made desolate over his wounded feelings. He has given Harry so much of himself, and for what? Harry still hides things from him. After all this time, Harry still pulls away.

Though Tom’s methods may have been less than honest, his intentions are pure. Regardless of the machinations behind his honeyed words, their meaning is truthful. He says he loves Harry because he _wants_ to say it.

In the throes of his anger, Tom stays in his room well past supper time. Harry does not come to knock on his door, and Tom does not hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

It is the first meal together they’ve missed in years. This does not sit well with him, but what choice does he have? There is no pride to swallow here. Harry has asked for space, then fine. Tom will give him all the space in the world.

That night, Tom sleeps alone in his room, curled on his side, eyes squeezed shut. The absence on the other side of the bed does not matter. He had never needed anyone before; he does not need anyone now.

_In the morning,_ he thinks, _Harry will come to his senses._ Harry will see that life without Tom is miserable and empty. Harry will come back, and everything will be as it was.

* * *

Rays of sunlight pull Tom into wakefulness. He does not move at first; he is exhausted from a restless night of tossing and turning. Slowly he rolls over, stretching his limbs out and covering his face with his forearm. He feels out of sorts. Is it because he’d spent the night alone?

Long minutes slip by before Tom can pin the source of his unease. Harry likes the curtains open so he can wake with the sunrise. Therefore as part of their typical routine, Harry shuts the curtains before he leaves for the washroom.

Tom rises, his arms like wooden logs as he forces himself to his feet so he can shut the curtains. The fields outside look as they had the day before. Even from this distance, he can make out the flattened patch where he and Harry have their picnics.

Suddenly, Tom hates everything. He hates how everything is the same here. He hates how he knows what every nook and cranny of this house looks like to the point where he can navigate it in the unbroken darkness of a cold winter’s night. What good does this tranquility do for him, if one sour moment can ruin him so completely?

He has grown used to the slow pace of this life. The lack of pressure has weakened him. Tom clenches his hands, biting his nails into the palm of his hand to sharpen his senses, to restore his clarity. He must push harder. He must meet his limits and challenge himself so he can be prepared for the world that awaits him. The world he will crush before it can crush him.

Tom rushes through his morning, intent on going outside for some air. Perhaps today is a good day to re-landscape the forest. Herbology is not his best subject, practically speaking, but years of gardening with Harry have taught him to appreciate the art of tending to plant life. Tom’s jaw tenses, the motion so subtle he nearly misses it. Thoughts like that will not help him. He must forget them.

After exiting his room, Tom takes the stairs two at a time, prepared to make a direct line for the door. He does not hear Harry rushing into the entrance hall from the kitchen.

“Tom?”

Tom nearly misses the bottom step, a disastrous failure that would have seen him landing face first onto the floor. Instead he pinwheels, his right arm flailing out to grasp the railing for balance. The varnished wood is cold underneath his palm.

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Tom snaps out, irritated. He moves down the final step and pivots at the foot of the stairs to look at Harry.

Harry is wearing a collared shirt. This is the very first thing Tom notices; it sends an awful feeling tumbling into the pit of his stomach. Next is the chagrined expression on Harry’s face. Tom wants to shove Harry into the wall and kiss him. He wants everything to go back to normal. He wants—

“Right, um.” Harry rubs at the back of his neck and exhales sharply. “I’m sorry for just up and leaving yesterday but… I had to do some thinking. Is it—is it okay if we talk?” His voice is rough at the end, tinged with a hint of desperation.

For a moment, Tom is tempted to refuse, but his curiosity burns deeply. Tom knows himself well enough to predict the agonizing outcome if he turns Harry down. If he ignores Harry’s request, he will be worse off in the long run. The discontent of uncertainty will consume his every waking thought and drive him to distraction. 

“Let’s go out onto the porch.” They will not do this here inside. Tom will escape the confines of the house, and he will have the option to leave if he wants.

The porch is as they’d left it yesterday. Harry sits down on the left side. Tom sits, leaving a decent gap between them. Harry glances at the space but says nothing. Does he care? Does it hurt him as much as it hurts Tom to do it?

“Well?” Tom asks. Time to get this over with, whatever it may be. “What is it?”

Harry is staring out at the garden. He inhales deeply, closes his eyes for a short second. Then he turns, and Tom is struck by the gravity of dread in Harry’s eyes.

Ridiculously, he wonders if Harry is going to break up with him.

“I’ve been lying to you,” Harry says. “About why we’re in here.”

The words are simple, their meaning plain as day. Tom doesn’t understand them. The entire concept of this is wrong. Absolutely, wholly wrong. His mind protests the very basis of it—Harry would never lie to him. Harry is here because Harry _cares_ about him.

Harry breathes out into the silence, a shuddering exhale that shakes his shoulders with violence. 

“In my time, in my past, Tom Riddle grew to become Lord Voldemort, the greatest Dark Lord of the century. Voldemort and his followers ran their campaign across magical Britain, slaughtering Muggles, eliminating those who stood in their way.” Harry pauses, then, to take in Tom’s expression. Harry is definitely shaking now. His shoulders are trembling, and his hands, though clasped firmly in his lap, are quivering. “Voldemort murdered my parents. He murdered them and so many others, and he probably murdered Sirius, too.”

Waves of frenzied magic are broiling around them. Harry is losing composure, his emotions spilling over into their environment. Tom can feel the hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end. He can feel his innate sense of self-preservation telling him to draw his wand and move away from the danger.

Harry continues, his voice unsteady, “Voldemort tried to kill me in my first year of Hogwarts. And my fourth year. There is—was?—a prophecy. It said that we were destined to defeat each other. That neither could live while the other survives. But I don’t—I don’t want that. I never wanted it, any of it.”

Finally, _finally,_ Tom seizes control of himself enough to speak. “Is that all?”

Harry stares vacantly, eyes unseeing as they gaze upon Tom’s impassive face.

“I went back in time to save you, Tom, but I also went back to stop you.”

Tom stands up. There is no purpose in mind as he does so, only the wild urge to get as far away from the source of his discomfort as possible.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’m sorry, Tom. I really am. But this doesn’t—it doesn’t change anything between us unless you want it to. It—it doesn’t _have_ to. I meant it when I said I wanted to help you. I meant it when I said I wanted to save you. When we leave here, Tom, everything will be different. We can be whoever we want. I don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or prophecies. I believe in people, Tom. I believe in _you.”_

The pleading edge to Harry’s voice is palpable. Tom’s throat clogs up at the sound of it. The instinct to seek comfort surges in him like a battering ram. Every beat of his heart is a painful reckoning—a _thud, thud, THUD_ that threatens to burst through his ribcage.

“You said nothing bad would happen to me here,” Tom says finally. “You said I was going to die if I stayed at Wool's.”

“Voldemort did kill you. He took everything that was good in you and twisted it.”

Tom thinks about that. Thinks about what it means to be a Dark Lord, to be so powerful that all of Britain will fear him, will fear his name, will bow down before him. “Maybe so,” Tom says, so calmly that it takes him by surprise. “But you took that choice from me and you’ve justified it with the greater good.”

His words hit their mark; Harry flinches back. The smallest of motions, but not one that escapes Tom’s notice. Grindelwald’s rhetoric spans fifty years? Well, Tom plans for his own legacy to last even longer. He does not plan to lose; not here, not when they leave this place.

Before him, Harry looks so helpless. His eyes are so sad, his body curled in, his arms wrapped around his chest. He’s hurting, Tom can tell, and this mere fact hurts him, too. It would be so easy to fix this—to smile and reassure, to forgive and forget and let the past remain in the past. To lose himself in the affection Harry had so freely given him. 

“I trusted you. I trusted you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, and you _lied_ to me.”

Tom takes a moment to think about what he’s said. It is not a lie. It is not a manipulation. It is the honest truth, for once, and Tom has to blink back sudden moisture as he realizes the depth of betrayal he feels.

Harry reaches out; Tom pulls away, steps backwards from the porch bench. Harry’s face crumples, and Tom suppresses a violent urge to console him.

“You don’t care about me,” Tom says, testing the words out. They are ashen, numb on his tongue; he regrets saying them if only because of the way they echo in his head, a mantra that deepens the wound inside of him with each repetition.

“That’s not true, Tom. I swear I do care about you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe in you.” 

Tom can’t stand here and listen to Harry speak that way, can’t watch as Harry looks at him that way. The yawning pit in his chest gapes wide, a black hole, a heavy sensation that threatens to drag him under. He has to—he has to leave, to get away, to find time and space to figure out what the hell it is that has happened to him, why he’s feeling this way, miserable and distraught, his emotions robbing him of his ability to think coherently.

So Tom does not speak, does not look back. He turns away from Harry and walks straight for the forest, for the cover of trees that will shield his view of the house. Once there, he can gain some distance from this. He can settle on the earthy ground and inhale the fresh scents of pine and spruce and sycamore. 

* * *

At this early hour, the ground is damp. Tom drags his shoes in the dirt, kicking up clumps and pebbles. His shoes are black, unmarked by the dirt, but there are bits and pieces of earth that cling to the toe, sullying it.

When he is certain of his solitude, when he feels he has walked far enough into the expanse of trees that he will not be followed or overheard, he closes his eyes. His head is throbbing with the beginnings of a headache. Tom breathes out through his nose to calm his racing heart, to ease the discomfort in his chest.

He misses Harry. The truth of that statement is unshakeable. It has barely been a day and already he feels unanchored, set adrift in a foreign body of water without a map to guide him.

Who is he, now? Tom Riddle had always been assured of his place in the world. He was the best, the brightest, the most ambitious. Now he has none of that. There are no comparisons to make, no grand goals to achieve. The one achievement he had set for himself—earning Harry’s affection—has soured itself with _betrayal._

Despair creeps in, the anguished counterpart to his helpless anger. He knows without looking that his hands are unsteady. Weak.

Who is he, here?

Here amongst the trees. Here under the glittering wards.

Tom walks further, right to the edge, right to where the boundary cuts through the green growth, all of it humming faintly with power. The barrier is nearly invisible, discernible only to those with magic in their veins. It feels fainter, though that may be only his imagination at work. Has the magic begun to settle? When it does unwind, relaxing into the air without a trace left behind, will he be truly free?

Questions without answers. So many things unknown to him.

“Lord Voldemort,” he says aloud, tasting the syllables. The name is bitter on his tongue, a reminder of the life he has left behind. The old future he had torched with his decision to come here.

Lord Voldemort is a Dark Lord, is the man who murdered Harry’s parents.

Tom Riddle is...

He is not that. Not yet. He has the choice. Not the choice that has been stolen from him, but a new choice. A choice to move forward with. The ultimate unknown that awaits him on the other side of these wards.

Tom has built himself from nothing. First at Wool’s, then at Hogwarts, then here with Harry. The reinvention of himself is familiar, comforting. A veil of protection to pull on like a well-worn coat. To do so now may be a monumental task, but it is not one that he fears. He knows what he wants, power and prestige, and he knows he is capable of achieving those goals.

The foundation he had built for himself at Hogwarts is long gone. He has moved on from that time. A new world awaits him, a world that knows nothing of Lord Voldemort or Tom Riddle. In fact, the only person who knows him at all is—

Tom shuts his eyes a second time, an attempt to shut out the—the _pain._ He had given _everything_ to Harry and now he is reaping the consequences. The ruin of caving to his weakness, the agony of accepting the humanity he originally sought to avoid. The cost of taking Harry into his confidence.

Harry has _lied_ to him.

Harry claims to love him.

Dumbledore had once cited love as magic’s most powerful force. Tom had scoffed at the notion then, discarding it as another one of the man’s useless platitudes. Yet he had fallen for it, in the end. He had convinced himself that Harry was an exception, a kindred soul worthy to be his partner, his equal.

Tom has spent _years_ learning about Harry. All of the intricacies that make up Harry Potter have been burned into his mind. Habits and hobbies and likes and dislikes, all of them glittering gems shelved in deep within his heart. Treasures that are not so easily thrown away. Facts that exist in his mind as surely as the sun rises and falls every day.

It is humiliating. All along, Tom had feared he was only second choice, that Harry would leave him if given the option to do so. Now he has been handed the proof of that fact. His life is only a means to an end. His existence is a pawn to be moved across a grander chess board. Tom has been saved so that Harry can save his parents and his godfather, can save countless others from a new, distant war that Tom has yet to cause.

The truth of this feels worse. Harry sees him as a murderer, as a Dark Lord, and yet—and _yet—_

Here they are. On a fucking _farm_ in the middle of nowhere. Tom’s ambitions brought to heel, his connections uprooted, his past eradicated in favour of a beautiful, peaceful future. Tom had thought himself in control of the situation; he believed that Harry belonged to him, that their cherished relationship was a result of his determined efforts to attract Harry to his side.

But who, here, has been seducing whom? Has Harry not led him on in the cruelest of ways, with promises of understanding and security? Harry has lied to him, has brought him here to save the lives of others, has _domesticated_ him with pledges of love and intimacy.

Tom rubs at his face and is not surprised when his hand comes away damp. He is angry. Everything hurts so badly. All he has ever done here has been for Harry. For them. His efforts are unappreciated, made miniscule by the vast breadth of the dreadful truth. 

A strange noise drags itself out of him, torn from his lungs and expelled into the air. It sounds like grief. Tom sits down in the dirt, heedless of the filth, and buries his head in his hands. He breathes through his exhaustion. He forces it from his body. He is angry. He is _angry._ His hands are so cold, but he can warm them if he clenches them up.

He would have done anything for Harry. He would have reduced the world to ashes if it made Harry happy. He would have changed himself, would have done anything to be better, to earn the adoration he has grown to crave.

Harry has lied to him. Does Harry even love him? If Harry truly cares, if Harry really does love him, what does that look like?

Not like this, surely.

Tom drags a weary hand across his face to clear the moisture there. It would be so very easy for him to let Harry’s betrayal slide, to pretend all is well until he even believes it himself. But Tom has never in his life settled for easy. He does not hide from his problems, he does not cower from his enemies. He formulates his arguments and hones his skills. He succeeds where others would have failed. This is no different.

This is no different, he tells himself. There is no difference. What he feels for Harry does not matter. If necessary, he will empty himself of those memories. He will purge the associations of Harry and happiness from his heart. Now that he knows his death is a lie, he can try to break free of these wards and return to his own time. He can return to Hogwarts and resume his life… 

No. Not exactly. He is older than he was when he left. Even if he was to continue from the time of his departure, he is no longer the same person. The thirteen-year-old boy who had fled from death no longer exists. Tom Riddle will never become Lord Voldemort. He will not kill Harry’s parents. How could he bear to, knowing what he does? Harry has his mother’s eyes and his father’s face. To see them at the end of his wand, to watch the light fade from those features… it would ruin him.

Tom Riddle has a dead, unreachable past. He has an uncertain, inescapable future, and—

He has the boy he loves waiting for him at home.

However damning that love may be, it is true. Tom rises on steady legs and vanishes the dirt from his clothing. He straightens his shirt and trousers. He will confront Harry. He will get his answers. He will not think about what will happen if those answers are less than satisfactory.

* * *

When Tom re-enters the house, it is silent. The living room is empty. The kitchen is empty. Tom draws his wand and whispers _‘point me’._ He watches as the tip of his wand spins towards the stairs.

Tom takes the stairs one step at a time, lets his footfalls echo ominously in the quiet of the house. His eyes trace the walls he knows so well. He takes in the wallpaper pattern he can recall in his mind, wherever he is, with perfect clarity. He clutches the railing that feels familiar under his hand, listens to the creak of each step beneath his feet.

Harry is in his own room, sitting on the bed, and staring at the mural on the wall. His head turns towards the door as Tom comes to a pause in the doorway. Tom exhales, forces himself to stare directly into Harry’s eyes. Eyes that had drawn him in from the very beginning; eyes so sincere, so wide and innocent. 

“You were selfish,” Tom says, monotone and flat, devoid of everything he ought to be feeling. “You didn’t do this for me. You did this to save your parents. To save your godfather.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Tom cuts him off.

“Don’t deny it, Harry. You didn’t do this only out of some pure, saintly urge to save me. You did do this for yourself, and I want you to acknowledge that.”

Harry swallows. “Okay,” Harry says. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. But that isn’t the _only_ reason why I did that, I promise—” 

“Stop. Just stop.” Tom grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to hear this. Not now, not yet. Not when the pain of it all is poignant, fresh. Whatever honeyed words Harry has to offer him, they have lost their meaning in this moment.

“Tell me everything,” Tom says, tone brooking no room for argument. “All of it, from the very beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am Big Nervous about this chapter because really most of the story has been building towards this point. i hope it lives up to the expectations! 
> 
> also, happy thanksgiving if you're in canada :)


	11. Year Four, cont.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loving Harry has always been a journey. It is a journey of gradual education—a gathering of the minutiae that make up their relationship. Tom holds in his heart the simple pleasures of their day-to-day lives, the quiet intimacy of knowing someone so absolutely, and the blissful warmth of touch that he had been denied for so, so long. 
> 
> Tom longs for the ease of their relationship, for the ebb and flow of their lives together, peaceful and full of laughter. He wishes for it more than anything. But he cannot forget, and he does not know if he can forgive. Not this, not so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to [Coral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkJellyfish/works) for the beta on this chapter! 
> 
> mucked around with my spotify playlist for this story, which you can find [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0cOrkYSOKUF8zUlIK4UfHF?si=EYTVatNZSuCdkOUf3YLYSA)! some of the songs are just there for the vibe tbh. i don't always pay attention to the lyrics closely.
> 
> * * *
> 
> previously: 
> 
> After an off-handed comment triggers Harry's guilty conscience, Harry asks Tom for some space. Tom is upset by this and spends the evening sulking and angry. The next morning, Harry confesses everything; Tom learns the truth of why they are under the wards. Tom Riddle did not die in the 1940s after all—he eventually grew to power and became the dark wizard known as Lord Voldemort. 
> 
> Hurt by Harry's betrayal, Tom stalks off into the woods to think on his own. He comes to the conclusion that he needs to hear a better explanation before he can decide what he wants to do. Tom returns to the house and demands answers from Harry.

“Tell me everything,” Tom says, tone brooking no room for argument. “All of it, from the very beginning.”

Harry gapes for a brief second, clearly surprised by Tom’s request. Then he seems to settle, and the startled expression is replaced by one that is firm, unyielding. Harry scoots across the mattress, leaving space for Tom to sit.

Tom steps into the room and leans against the dresser, his back facing the wall. Harry’s face falls, the tiniest amount, but then his resolve returns, washing the sadness away.

_Gryffindor,_ Tom thinks, unbidden, and there is an unreasonable amount of fondness that wells up in him, all of it associated with the label, with Harry. He shoves it down, locks it away. What he needs is information so he can make an informed decision. What he needs is to be impartial, distant. What he needs is solid logic and conclusive evidence that Harry is telling him the truth, that there is more between them than circumstance and pity and justifications.

Tom wants Harry to feel the pain that he does. Harry needs to admit the harm he has caused, to feel ashamed of it. Tom wants his wounds soothed, and the only way to satisfy the hollow, angry part of him is if Harry suffers.

It has always been this way, hasn’t it? Tom can’t stand the imbalance, to know that he’s been made a fool of this entire time—he’d had _enough_ of that treatment at the hands of those at Wool’s and at Hogwarts. 

If the only way to get people to listen to him was to make them fear him, then that was what he would do. If the only way to feel better was to feel _superior,_ then he would shove all those around him into the dirt and grind them to pieces beneath his heel.

Harry sucks in a breath, gathering his courage. “I suppose I should start with the prophecy...”

Tom perks up; Harry had only mentioned this in passing before. From Harry, Tom learns all the details of the prophecy: who delivered it into the world and who presented it to the ears of the Dark Lord. Tom learns about the innocent people who died because of it—Harry’s parents.

And so Tom realizes why Harry was chosen to stay here with him. Or more aptly, why Harry had little choice at all. Four years of Harry’s life at Hogwarts were spent living under the mantle of the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry spent four years known the boy who defeated Voldemort. 

Four years that end in a graveyard, in the Cruciatus, in the death of yet another person who Harry considered a friend.

“After that,” Harry says, “I spent the summer at Hogwarts. Dumbledore showed me memories of your life; growing up at Wool’s and at Hogwarts. He showed me how you grew to hate death more than fear it. He told me that I needed to understand what would drive someone to split their soul into parts.”

Harry talks about Horcruxes. He talks about how a man could become a monster if he was given tools to wield as weapons, if enough people turned a blind eye to his misery and anger. Harry unveils the story of Tom’s fantastical future existence in slow, heavy statements. He explains how Lord Voldemort broke himself in order to rebuild himself and was never the same again. 

“What Dumbledore really showed me, in the end, was how a boy with no family grew up alone and cold.” Harry lets out a deep, weary sound. “And I knew—I knew that could have been _me.”_

Tom wonders if this is supposed to garner sympathy. If so, it is not working. Tom doesn’t care for the lives lost during his rise to power. He does not care for a past which will never be his to choose; he will not make the mistakes of his predecessor. Harry is the one who cares too deeply, too strongly—enough to sacrifice himself for a chance at a better future.

“If I hadn’t had my friends, if I hadn’t had Sirius,” Harry says, “that could have been me. The Sorting Hat, it… it almost put me in Slytherin.” Then Harry lets out a short, odd laugh. “And I begged it not to, because of Voldemort. Because I was afraid of going to the house that raised the man who killed my parents.”

“The house that raised _me,”_ Tom says harshly, arms folded over his chest.

Harry shakes his head in firm disagreement. “That isn’t my point. When I met you, I knew what I expected to see. Someone who didn’t trust anyone because there had never been anyone to trust. Someone who was angry at the world for being cruel but was also angry at themselves for failing to fit into it. I know,” Harry adds, “because I felt that way when I was living with the Dursleys.”

Tom has conceptualized many parallels between them over the years. Rationale to explain why he feels so close to Harry, so drawn to him. Harry has never confirmed having similar thoughts one way or the other. They have never discussed the depth of their similarities, the jointness of their separate lives, the pain of their associated pasts.

Pain that Tom has always felt, pain he inflicts upon those around him, the only way he knows how to express it—

“You’re wrong,” Tom finds himself saying. “That isn’t me. You don’t know anything about me—”

“I know you’re not Voldemort,” Harry says vehemently, standing up. “I don’t see you as him and I never have. You have to know that, Tom. How could I see you as—as someone who hurt me?”

It is difficult for Tom to organize his thoughts into something coherent. He is not Voldemort. He could never inflict torture and suffering upon Harry without a shred of remorse. But at the same time, the potential for this exists in him.

He is not Lord Voldemort—not yet.

Though the course of history may have changed, part of Tom Riddle will forever belong with Voldemort. He and Voldemort are one and the same in nature, despite their divergences. Circumstances have shifted, placing him on a path that is free of war and strife, but Tom has always known he would be capable of great things. Capable of murder, if what Harry says is true.

“Now that I’ve had years to look back on it,” Harry continues, oblivious to Tom’s dark thoughts, “I think this is what Dumbledore planned for. He wanted me to empathize with you so I would agree to do this because it was the only way you and I would survive here together for any length of time. If I met you at Wool’s while hating you for what you had the potential to do, we never would have gotten anywhere.”

“So he manipulated you.”

“I—” Harry falters, his hands falling loosely by his sides. “I suppose he did. And I suppose I’ve known that for some time. But that doesn’t mean I see you any differently, Tom.”

Tom barks a laugh—he can’t help it. After all this, after everything they’d gone through, Harry still wants to believe the best of people. In Tom, and even in Albus bloody Dumbledore. “Of _course_ it does. Dumbledore may have sorted Gryffindor, but his methods are far from righteous. You saw how easily he was willing to discard me. He cares so long as you are useful to him. Tell me, Harry, what was the _real_ reason for sending me back?”

Harry’s face falls. That is how Tom knows he won’t like the answer.

“Why did Dumbledore decide to send me back?” Tom repeats with a sneer. “Did the goodness of his old, shrivelled heart finally run dry?”

Harry’s shoulders twitch, then slump. “It did,” Harry says, regretful, like the words are bitter on his tongue. “He decided you were beyond saving. That you would become Voldemort no matter what. He thought the risk was too high. He wanted to send you back and resume the war.”

“High and mighty Albus Dumbledore,” Tom spits out, uncaring of the venom in his tone. “If there is anyone with a god complex, Harry, it’s him. So he’s played you for a fool. What else?”

“What else?”

“Don’t expect me to believe your tripe about _knowing I’m a good person,_ Harry. I am not a good person. You’ve said that I kill people—that fact is not cause for a _minor_ disagreement. If I’ve done what you say I have, I will _always_ be capable of those things. I will _always_ be the man who murdered your parents.”

Harry pulls back half a step. “You’re not,” he protests. “Tom,” he adds, an afterthought, the postscript of Tom’s humanity tacked on at the end.

“Lord Voldemort,” Tom says aloud, and is satisfied when Harry’s expression flickers. “You fear him. You fear me. You have and you will, and that will be the way of things regardless of how many chickens we raise together or how many potatoes we unearth from your garden.”

“That’s not true. Tom, you have to believe me.” Harry’s tone, so beseeching, hurts to hear. Harry’s eyes, so wide behind round glasses. The submissive gesture of Harry’s hands, pleading, spread open in invitation. “Do you—do you want me to apologize some more? Is that it? I’m sorry I was selfish—”

It isn’t. Tom doesn’t want that. He may have thought so before, but now the idea of further apology only triggers a sharp sense of resentment. “You didn’t want Slytherin. You didn’t _want_ to be here. I was convenient for you. An easy way to save your friends and family.” 

“Tom, I _love_ you.”

“If you love me, that will invariably fall to second place as soon as we set foot outside of these wards.”

The coldness of Tom’s voice shocks them both. Harry, who had not expected to hear it, and Tom, who had not expected to admit it. To admit this fear is a crushing weight simultaneously placed and lifted on his chest. The freedom from telling truth is offset by the pain of his vulnerability.

Across from him, Harry flinches backwards, a myriad of emotions playing out across his face. Pain, sadness, regret. The tiny changes of facial muscles that Tom can pick out so easily. He _knows_ Harry, and that makes this moment so much worse.

Then, like a switch is flipped, Harry recovers from the damage of Tom’s words, unfurling like a blossom in springtime. His eyes grow clear, crystal green as they gaze at Tom. He is steeling himself, gathering that Gryffindor courage.

“Love… love isn’t about rankings,” Harry says. “Loving someone isn’t like winning the House Cup. If I love you, then I love you. I don’t love you any more or less because I love other people.”

Around them, the house is quiet. Sunlight streams through the window, highlighting the paint strokes on the wall. The snowy wingspan of Harry’s owl, Hedwig. The downy feathers of Cluckers, who rests on Tom’s lap. Visions of happiness pressed into the wall.

“You don’t understand,” Tom says quietly. “Life is _always_ ranked. More so when death lives at your doorstep. Who lives, who dies. The choices we make. The choices we discard. Those who shy away from that choice, from choosing at all, are weak.” His hands clench into fists, white-knuckled and biting at his palms. “In any world, people will hurt you. They _will_ put you down because that is where they see you.”

Bitterness curls in Tom’s chest. He had forgotten what it was like to feel disappointed. 

For years, Harry had proven to be the exception to his self-imposed isolation. For years, Tom had convinced himself that Harry was a person worth trusting, someone who would be his constant companion for decades to come. Someone who could love him, unreservedly.

This is not true. There is no love without strings, no life without hardship. Tom had been foolish to ever believe otherwise.

“Dumbledore manipulated you. You think that love redeems all, that the answer to world peace lies within our hearts, not our minds. There is no such thing as utopia, Harry. The sins of humankind are not so easily cleansed. The lust for war, the endless greed. We are what we make of ourselves, and we shape the world with bold strides, not silent ones.” 

These were concepts Tom had held close to him as he planned for his ascent in the magical world; the universe was not kind, was not lenient. If it had ever been, it would have been long ago, long before Merope Gaunt was born, long before Tom had taken breath in this world.

“You asked me to explain,” Harry says, his voice just as quiet as Tom’s. “Why do I feel like you never meant to hear me out at all?”

“I _am_ hearing you out,” Tom argues, but the itch of his anger is crawling up his spine, a scalding heat that makes his throat run dry. “But you’re not telling me anything that matters, Harry. I _am_ Lord Voldemort. You can deny it all you like: that we are not the same person, that we never will be. But he exists in me. We have the same traits, the same ambitions and desires. You expect me to believe that you won’t someday wake and realize that?”

“I—”

“Watch yourself,” Tom snaps, stalking forwards, backing Harry towards the window. “Do not lie to me.”

Harry’s hands go up on instinct, to protect himself, to shield himself from the aggression that oozes from Tom in spades. “Tom,” he says, more frustrated than fearful. “Stop it. Let me explain.”

Tom halts a few meters from the wall. “Go ahead.”

“You’re right. What you said. You’re right. Maybe you always will have the potential to be Voldemort. But that’s—it is a choice.” Harry inhales a shaky breath, lowers his hands enough to hold them out once more. “It’s a _choice_ to do that. People change, Tom. You’ve changed in the time that we’ve known each other, and I’ve changed, too. You can choose not to be Voldemort. I can choose to see you as a person, not a monster. We can—we can choose to be who we want despite what the world tries to tell us. Don’t you see?”

Tom sees so much at once, all of it overwhelming. The complexities of human nature, the impossibility of his own emotions. 

He sees the threads of his past connected with the threads of his future. Himself, the heir of Slytherin, as Hogwarts’ undisputed best student. As the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Powerful enough to be called lord by those who had once spurned him as lesser.

He sees Harry, the love that exists between them, tainted by past and future alike. The boy he loves, the only person he has ever learned to love. 

Loving Harry has always been a journey. It is a journey of gradual education—a gathering of the minutiae that make up their relationship. Tom holds in his heart the simple pleasures of their day-to-day lives, the quiet intimacy of knowing someone so absolutely, and the blissful warmth of touch that he had been denied for so, so long.

Tom longs for the ease of their relationship, for the ebb and flow of their lives together, peaceful and full of laughter. He wishes for it more than anything. But he cannot forget, and he does not know if he can forgive. Not this, not so easily.

“Forgiveness is not in my nature, Harry,” Tom says at last, an attempt at honesty. “How could you expect me to look past this? If there was a point of no return, we left it behind long ago.” Tom suppresses the ache in his heart, blinks the moisture from his eyes. “I love you,” Tom says, “I love you because I _do_ love you, Harry. But love is not enough.”

It stings. Tom knows it does; the cruelty of his words slide in and bury deep. Harry’s confidence withers before his eyes, but Tom tells himself it is necessary and commits the expression to memory despite his own agony. It is better to desensitize himself from the misery of it.

There is the pain. There, etched into each aspect of Harry’s expression. There, reflected in those anguished green eyes. There, in the slow dip of Harry’s head as his face falls, shattering and giving way to grief.

_Is this how I feel?_ Tom wonders. _Is this what’s become of me, when Harry looks at me?_

They are motionless. Neither of them moving, breathing—only their fixed gazes and the purposeful distance between them. Tom, who wishes, and Harry, who regrets.

When Harry speaks again, his voice is just as hushed as before. Reticent and weary. “Is… is this it, then?”

It’s laughable. Tom wants to laugh, to make a mockery of his poor, poor heart. Is this it? Years of his life spent on Harry now thrown away because he cannot possibly sacrifice any more of himself to this beautiful boy. How easy would it be to forgive, to slide to his knees and beg for Harry to love him, to accept him, to forgive him for crimes never committed.

Harry would do it. Harry would do all that and more, would offer love and safety and forgiveness. But Tom would always wonder. The notion would live in the back of his mind, black poison that would curl tendrils around every word, every action.

“I don’t know. I’m tired.” That is also the truth. Tom has been wandering around in circles, paths of logic that lead him nowhere. He has gone over the meaning of what he observes and the meaning of what he mourns. He has not yet reached a reasonable conclusion.

In response, Harry cracks the weakest attempt at a smile that Tom has ever seen. “I’m tired, too.”

Exhaustion sweeps through Tom, sudden and unforgiving. Any other time, he would have sooner broken his own arm than shown weakness. Now, however, Tom walks over to the bed and settles down on it.

The mattress dips beneath him, creaking. The sheets are soft under his hand. Harry had slept here last night, alone. This fact fails to evoke sadness in him. He is beyond sadness, now. He is somewhere distant, splintered and subdued, ready to lay in this very spot for a thousand years if it means knowing peace in the future. If it means having answers.

After a brief second, Harry goes to sit next to him. They are not touching—a space of a few inches exists between them—but they are together, in a way.

“Where do we go from here?” Harry asks. From the tenor of his voice, the question is clearly rhetorical. It does not stop Tom from wanting to answer anyway.

“We don’t,” he says simply. “We don’t go anywhere.” 

They are here. They will stay here until the wards fall. Tom is hurting, is angry, is grieving the pureness of love and the bliss of ignorance. But he is here, with Harry, and that will not change no matter how much he wishes otherwise.

Some minutes go by. Tom can’t decide if he ought to get up and leave. Sitting here with Harry is more preferable than being alone, funnily enough, but the debate of this conundrum will keep him occupied for days, surely—to stay or to go.

“Do you hate me?” Harry asks.

“No,” Tom answers.

“Okay.” Harry resumes his scrutiny of the window. “Thank you.”

Shadows move across the wall, over the mural. Tom’s gaze wanders for a while, from person to person, from shape to shape. He looks at himself, at the wave of his hair and the pensive smile that rests on his painted lips. Harry sees Tom Riddle as someone content to sit with a chicken and smile.

Then Harry speaks. “What did you think of me when we first met?”

Everything about Harry is tangled within the loops and knots of Tom’s emotions. A heap of rubbish that Tom does not particularly care to separate at the moment. But then Tom considers, and the knowledge comes to him, creeping up his throat like a bad cough, spreading upwards and outwards until the words emerge from his throat.

“When I met you, you were _no one._ You were not supposed to matter to me. You were another stepping stone to the future.” Tom closes his eyes, shuts out the sights and the sounds. He breathes and focuses on the truth. “I hated that I was forced to rely on you. I thought I might ruin you for thinking yourself superior. For rescuing me from a fate I could not save myself from.

“I looked at you and saw no one. But you—” Tom barks a laugh. “You looked at me and saw everyone. _Everything._ A euphoric, flawless future free of suffering and free of pain. No wonder I fell for you, Harry. How could I not, when everything you hold so dear rests squarely in my hands? When I alone have the power to make or break your happiness so thoroughly? You look at me like the sun rises and falls at my behest. I am a scale that weighs your life against my own, and _that_ is somehow perplexing enough to keep my mind occupied for a millennium.” 

Tom exhales, counts the seconds that pass before he inhales once more. Next to him, Harry’s breathing is just as measured.

“For years I laboured under the assumption that you were my saviour. A saving grace for the poor orphan boy raised in a loveless orphanage,” Tom says resentfully. “Now I see that I was your saviour after all.”

An idol for devotion, a vessel for affection. A desperate hope for a desperate boy. Tom opens his eyes to take in Harry’s reaction. Distant and reflective—those expressive eyes full of wistfulness.

Harry presses his palms flat against his thighs. His fingers flex and unflex against the fabric of his trousers. “I never wanted to be anyone’s saviour. I just wanted to be Harry. And when you met me, I was not the Boy-Who-Lived, not Voldemort’s prophesied enemy. I was just Harry, and you were just Tom.”

It is not what Tom expected to hear. It is not the birth of a Dark Lord. It is not the birth of a boy named Harry Potter or the idealized past of a boy named Tom Riddle. It is _their_ beginning that Harry speaks of now. 

“You have the capability to be Voldemort, but you also have the capability to be whoever you want. You know that you do, right?” The question is delivered without heavy emphasis, but Tom senses the meaning behind it, the consideration that Harry wishes to impress upon him. 

“You still have control over your own destiny,” Harry says. “The past holds as much choice as the future does. We can choose to learn from history or not. We can choose to see ourselves differently. How we see _ourselves_ rather than how others see us. I don’t—I guess I don’t expect you to forgive me. But you need to know that I never did anything because I wanted to hurt you.”

Tom has no answer at first. In a perfect world, an ideal world free from war and death and meddlesome adults, they are just Harry and just Tom. They can live on a farm together and have that be enough.

In this world, they are enemies. Circumstances had dictated that they meet as enemies.

To Tom, Harry had been a stranger. To Harry, Tom had been… a murderer, a monster.

Harry had chosen to see past all that, to now consider Tom as a person separate from Lord Voldemort. For Tom, it is not so easy to move on.

Lord Voldemort was his destiny, the inevitable conclusion of his rise to power in Slytherin house, the result of endless ambition and a desire to see the society that had failed him brought to heel. To shed that part of himself is impossible. To forgo Voldemort is to capitulate to everyone who ever mocked him and told him he would amount to nothing.

Even Harry must know this, must see it as the truth. Tom Riddle would always become Lord Voldemort unless someone came to stop him. The failings of the institutions he lived in, the apathy of those who looked down upon him; all of that is made minuscule by comparison. Men are not born evil, unless—

Fate has decreed that he go this way. Tom cannot deny it; his hands could stain with blood and he would not flinch from the sight. Dumbledore believed it. Harry believed it and may still believe it now. They believed in his inescapable capacity for evil, so much so that they decided to lock him up here.

His future haunts him and his past mocks him. The only version of himself Tom feels he can be is the one he is now, but even then—he finds he no longer wants to.

“If I could be just Tom,” he says, allowing an ounce of regret to seep into the words, “I would be, here with you.”

Harry seems to accept this. He nods and looks back to the window. “So what do you plan to do when we leave?”

That is the question—what will he do? Does Tom Riddle walk into the future and become a dark lord? Will he and Harry always find themselves on opposite sides of a battlefield?

He couldn’t, he couldn’t. Thoughts of Harry run deeper than the cut of any betrayal. Tom no longer knows how to separate himself from Harry, but he does know that Harry standing at the other end of his wand is nothing he wants. He could hurt Harry, could jinx and curse him, but he would never kill him—he could never extinguish the light that had brought joy to his life—and that is weakness. Weakness to the highest degree, to care so rottenly that it robs him of a sane mind.

A world without Harry pales in comparison to any other. A world where Harry replaces Tom Riddle with someone else makes him feel sick.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Tom decides. “I hate you.”

Harry lets out a startled laugh. The beauty of catching Harry off-guard never fails to please him—even now, Tom feels that familiar sense of triumph in his gut, mixed right in with the hollow sensations of anger and self-disgust. 

“Well, alright. That’s fair.” Harry shrugs, quirks his lips so that he is nearly smiling, so close to smiling.

“I’ll hate you forever.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m furious with you.”

“I can tell.”

Tom sighs and lays down on the bed. He folds his hands over his chest and stares at the ceiling. After a beat, the bed shifts, creaking—Harry is next to him, still some inches away, but next to him nonetheless.

“This is my room, you know,” Harry says.

Tom ignores the jibe. “When you leave,” Tom asks instead, “where will you go?” 

Harry will go to his family, likely. To his godfather and to the Weasleys.

There is a pause wherein Harry debates his answer. Then he says, “To Potter Cottage, I suppose? I don’t know how this works, honestly. Your guess is as good as mine. Who knows what we’ll find once we leave.”

To Potter Cottage, not home. Neither of them know what that word means, really—home. Tom had called this house a home, but never has it felt more temporary than in this instant. Home is not the walls of this house, is not a room with a hand-painted mural or a grassy field with a flattened patch that is perfect for picnics. Home is a mental state, a space of safety and acceptance. 

For some years, home had been Hogwarts, the best place either of them had ever known. An escape from Harry’s abusive relatives. An escape from the obscurity and poverty of Wool’s orphanage. But no longer. Not when Tom has had a taste of better, a taste that sours on his tongue whenever he dwells on it.

“And if they’re not there? Your family.”

Harry goes silent for so long that Tom is tempted to turn his head and check the expression on Harry’s face for answers. But then Harry speaks, so softly that Tom has to strain to hear the words. 

“If they’re not, then that’s alright. I just… I really hope that some good came out of this. That some people got to live better lives because of what I did.”

Tom can’t stand this answer because he is aware that Harry includes him under that umbrella of people who get to live better lives. Tom detests pity, but he has grown to accept its variant—compassion—if only because Harry is so insistent on utilizing it. And so Tom has nothing to say, nothing that won’t result in another pointless argument.

They lay there in the quiet until the sunlight rises above the house, stealing the shadows with it. Tom’s stomach aches with emptiness, the absence of last night’s dinner a painful physical reminder of the chasm between them. Something about this spurs him to action; he sits up, a new decision suddenly made.

Harry’s curious eyes follow his movements, but the silence remains unbroken. The steadiness of Harry’s gaze flickers with uncertainty. There is a question in the air, one as clear as the scar on Harry’s forehead.

Tom stands and heads for the door. He is not surprised when Harry catches up to him in the outside hall.

They go downstairs. Harry follows two steps behind him through the house and into the kitchen, and then Tom goes to the fridge. He pulls out the basics: tomatoes, lettuce, cheese.

“Sandwiches?” Harry asks.

“Lunch,” Tom replies, the syllable clipped.

The act of preparation is familiar and easy. Tom’s hands take over without need for conscious thought, slicing the relevant ingredients and handing the dirty utensils off to Harry, who washes them in the sink.

They take lunch out on the porch. The sun shines brightly overhead but not blindingly so. The yard is full of active chickens scrambling around in their pen.

_The chickens need to be fed,_ Tom thinks. It’s stupid and silly, but he can’t help the genuine pang of concern that runs through him at that.

The chickens need to be fed. A chore that used to be insignificant in all aspects. Caring for living creatures that depend on him and Harry is a senseless attachment that only binds them together. But here, now, he must make the choices he can live with. He must decide his actions with all things in mind, with the balance of their microcosm dependent on what he says and does. 

He and Harry are reliant on each other for company, for sanity. For affection and companionship. He and Harry are still in love; a love with broken trust, but a love nonetheless. Tom harbours feelings that are not so easily discarded—not while the wounds are fresh. 

In time, perhaps, he will move on. In time, he may grow free of this entrapment, of the feelings that bind him.

Whether they stay here for months or years, Tom will keep the peace. But if the wards do not fall for years to come, Tom knows this prison will destroy him in the end. Harry will wear on him, as Harry does, with kindness and love. And Tom, with no choice, with nowhere else to turn, will welcome it with all the gratitude of a drowning man given a lifeline to clutch onto.

No man is an island. Tom once thought himself suited for solitude, that he hated other people enough to never need them. Harry has drawn him in with amicable smiles and friendly greetings, with indulgent touches and a patient gaze.

Harry loves him.

Harry loves him, but Tom will forever carry the burden of the foul truth. Harry’s merciful deception will never fade, but the way Tom feels for Harry will never waver, either. He is damned to love Harry despite the betrayal he feels, damned to hate himself for falling for it—for falling in love. And the blame lies with Harry, too, because Harry had brought him here, had placed them both in this contrived situation where Tom could learn to feel this way.

“There is more to tell you,” Harry says, “if you want to hear it.”

Tom glances over. Harry has his hands wrapped around half a sandwich while the other half rests on a plate in his lap.

What else is there? More stories of Voldemort and his misdeeds to justify Tom’s existence here under the wards? _It can’t hurt,_ Tom thinks sardonically. Surely it can’t be any _worse._

“If you like, then.” Tom nods once and looks back to the sky, to the thin scatter of clouds above them.

“The scar on my forehead. I see you looking at it sometimes.” Harry smiles, the fondness of old memories already leaking through. Memories of Tom’s curious touch over raised skin. Memories of withheld flinches that faded to non-existence over time.

“The Boy-Who-Lived,” Tom remarks, droll.

“Yeah.” Harry shifts, suddenly restless. “I always thought of it as being marked for—for death. How I should have died, but didn’t. For a long time, that was the only explanation I thought I’d ever get. But… there is a reason why you and I are here together, and it’s not just because of prophecy.” His hand lifts his fringe of hair, revealing his famous scar. “I’m a Horcrux.”

Tom’s breath freezes in his throat, the scope of the world narrowing down, down, down as the information worms its way into his mind, settling in like a satisfied cat before a blazing fire.

A portion of his soul resides next to Harry’s. Not Tom Riddle’s soul, which has not yet been split into shards, not yet been carved up by death—but _his_ soul nonetheless.

“I keep us anchored here,” Harry continues. “Because part of me is part of you.”

Tom reaches, places the pad of a single finger against that lightning bolt mark. He traces the shape, wonders at the warmth of Harry’s skin, at the comfortable tingle that washes over his hand like a current. 

Dark magic leaves traces. Furthermore, unfamiliar magic tends to induce a sense of _wrongness._ But this magic is his own, is his own essence poured into the very vessel that he finds himself unable to detach from. 

Harry is truly inescapable; how could Tom ever turn away?

Tom is transfixed. He has no words, no choice. Harry remains immobile under his hand, lips parted the slightest bit. Perhaps, they were meant to meet like this. Perhaps his own soul had drawn him here to be built up and broken, to suffer a glimpse of a kind, compassionate future where all is well. An indulgent existence where Tom does not have to choose between his pride and his weakness. 

Four years ago, Harry had been his adversary. Then Harry became his friend, his equal, his _love._ And now, one more label applied, the most curious of them all: his possession. For Tom considers his soul to be very much his, in all shapes and forms. His soul is to be treated with care and nurtured to immortality. 

His soul is Harry, who loves him. Harry, who anchors him to this transitional space.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Harry says. Pleads. “But Tom, I’d really like for you to stay.”

The ‘with me’ is unspoken, hanging in the air between them. Tom drops his hand down, holds it stiffly by his side, debating. If not for Harry, then for himself. If not for the future of others, then for his own. If not now, then...

Someday, perhaps, they will finish this as they had begun it:

_Together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be the epilogue. thank you all for reading. i'll save my final _final_ thoughts for the very end.
> 
> in the meantime, i am curious as to what people think about the morals of what has happened. i've seen arguments for both sides, and i have tried to refrain from replying too strongly either way in the comments because i was waiting for the reaction to this chapter.
> 
> so if you have thoughts, i would love to hear them!!


	12. Epilogue: Daylight (Three Years Later)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have made many promises to each other. Harry may not know them all, may not have heard those promises leave Tom’s mouth, but he feels the weight of them regardless. He holds them in his heart. Tom has never been an open book, and he may never be, but that’s alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to [Coral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkJellyfish/works) for the beta on this chapter, and for listening to my numerous #JustWriterThings complaints.
> 
> more thank you's for me to deliver:
> 
> to Drowsy, Elene, Kate, Maddy, and Moth for encouraging me through the last leg of this story,
> 
> to Dutch, for the vibe check,
> 
> to Lea, Maddy, Matthew, Minryll, and Pan for providing beautiful illustrations (mostly of our distinguished Lady Cluckers) along the way,
> 
> to the people in my discord server who helped elevate Cluckers from a simple bird to a mythical legend,
> 
> and of course to all of you for reading. 
> 
> some of you have been regular readers from the start, or even from the middle, or perhaps you have only joined us at the end. know that i appreciate the time you take out of your day to share your thoughts with me.

Harry wakes to his shoulders jerking this way and that of their own volition, the upper half of his body tossed about like a life preserver set adrift in the midst of an ocean storm. Then his heart rate settles, and though his body continues to move, the world shifts into focus around him.

“Harry. _Harry!”_

The rough handling stops—Harry can’t quite recall how long it had been going on—and the near-painful grip on his forearms makes itself known. Tom’s hands are holding him upright, slender fingers digging into Harry’s biceps.

“S-stop shaking m-me,” Harry manages to get out.

“I wasn’t. You were screaming. You wouldn’t stop—” Tom grits out, teeth clenched tight, hands gripping like vices. Is that concern that Harry hears?

Harry concentrates on Tom, on feeling and listening. He feels the quick puff-puff of Tom’s anxious breaths against his face. He hears the falter in Tom’s proud voice that betrays high-strung nerves.

“I’m f-fine.” Harry lets Tom pull him into a sitting position. Then he lets out a loud groan. It startles him, the way the sound slips out without conscious effort on his part. All Harry feels is a stabbing throb of pain in his head, pounding like hooves on concrete. “What happened?”

“You started—you were—” Tom breaks off _again,_ and that is how Harry knows that Tom must have been truly terrified.

“I’m okay,” Harry says slowly, determined not to stutter. If he speaks with care, he can speak despite his headache, a headache which is now beginning to recede. “I’m okay, Tom.”

The feeling of Tom’s breath vanishes entirely. He must be holding it. He stares Harry down, dark eyes drawing him in. There is a small crease between his brows, the only hint of emotion on his otherwise expressionless face. 

Harry’s hand falters once as he raises it to Tom’s cheek, a gentle caress, and then pokes Tom in the forehead. “You’ll get wrinkles if you keep worrying like that.”

Tom exhales all at once, the tension sliding from his face. “You are _impossible.”_

Harry smiles, fond. Then he tries to stand, but Tom pushes at his shoulders and scolds him for moving too fast, too soon. “Everything is fine,” Harry says. When the world spins, Tom will hold him steady. “I’m fine, see?” Harry repeats. “Nothing wrong with me.”

Tom scowls and says nothing, once again too concerned to be truly irritated. “That was hardly nothing.”

Harry hums. There is something special about having Tom fuss over him like this. It doesn’t happen often—god knows that if it did, Harry would throw a fit—but in small doses, it is endearing. A gleam of besottedness behind that cold exterior. A mark of pride for Harry, knowing that he is the only person who sees this side of Tom Riddle. The version of Tom that exists now, exists only with Harry, only under these wards.

Tom still has both hands on Harry’s shoulders. The weight and warmth of them is so familiar, so natural. They could stand like this for days, until the season had changed and the leaves had fallen from all the trees, leaving their branches bare.

“We’ll go back inside,” Tom says decisively. “And you’re not to do anything strenuous for the rest of the day.”

Harry gauges Tom’s possible response to a blunt ‘no, thanks’, then decides it’s likely not worth the time and effort to argue. One day of imposed rest won’t drive him too barmy. If Tom insists on repeating this tomorrow, then they’ll have to have words.

Tom makes lunch and dinner, washes the dishes with magic, and sends Harry up to bed early. Harry’s quiet concession earns him a strange look from Tom, but neither of them comment on it. Harry slips into the warmth of his bed with a sigh and falls asleep quickly.

* * *

In the morning, Harry struggles to wake up after a strange dream. His consciousness fights valiantly against falling back asleep, kicking through the waters of exhaustion until it surfaces. When his eyes open, he feels different.

What is strange is that this odd feeling lingers well into the morning. Harry feels physically fine. His head is pain free and his body responds the same as ever. However, all he can focus on is his preoccupation with the mysterious force messing with his senses. 

He is unable to pinpoint exactly what is going on; there is nothing overt, nothing concerning. Harry catches himself wondering about the sky, about the trees in the distance, about the fields on the far side of the house. 

Is he listening for something? Looking for something? He feels detached from his own senses, unable to trust his perception of the world around him. 

Harry passes the morning in a haze of dissociation. The world’s axis is slightly off-kilter, as though a crucial part of it has gone missing. Something has gone missing, but only for him. If Tom has noticed anything different, he’s done an excellent job of keeping his insights to himself. 

Harry does his best to hide his worries from Tom, but it doesn’t work—Tom knows him too well. By the time they finish tending to the chickens, Tom’s gaze has burned trails into the back of his head.

“Something the matter?” Harry asks stubbornly as they enter the house.

“I should be asking _you_ that.”

“I’m fine.” 

Harry _is_ fine. There is nothing wrong with him, only that sense of oddness that is following him around. Only his mind whispers to him that something has changed, something is off.

“If you say so,” Tom replies, his tone perfunctory, a sign that his mollycoddling will soon return in full force.

Harry sighs. “I promise, Tom. I feel fine. Maybe I’m just a bit stir crazy today, you know?”

Tom frowns at that. There had been days when the enclosure of the wards grew to be too much. Harry had once run off into the woods in the dead of night, desperate to see something other than the same skies and the same house and the same plant life, but to his despair, the forest was unshakably familiar, even in the dark.

Eventually, Tom had found him there, limbs splayed out on the damp, earthy ground. Flat on his back and staring up at the starry night sky, lost in useless thoughts on the meaning of the universe, Harry had not moved for at least an hour. Tom had been angry at him for leaving without saying anything, angry at him for lying on the ground in the cold and the dirt where he could get sick.

Harry had been unable to explain, but after a desperate, embarrassing moment in which he’d broken down crying in Tom’s arms, he’d thought that maybe Tom understood.

Tom places a hand on Harry’s shoulder, grounding him back in the present. “Let’s do something different today.”

“Okay,” Harry says. He hopes that whatever they do will settle the peculiar disturbance in him. A new activity will help him feel normal again, will pull him out of the murky waters of his own head and lead him to shore.

Tom squeezes down once, and then his hand withdraws. Harry misses the unspoken sentiment that lurks behind the touch: Tom’s promise to take care of him. Tom’s promise to care _for him,_ a distinction made with his heart rather than any sound logic.

They have made many promises to each other. Harry may not know them all, may not have heard those promises leave Tom’s mouth, but he feels them regardless. He holds them in his heart. Tom has never been an open book, and he may never be, but that’s alright.

Harry often thinks of the first time Tom said ‘I love you’. Shock had rolled through him then, alongside guilt. Tom’s words had been full of tenderness, full of truth.

Nowadays, that tenderness exhibits itself in different ways. Neither of them have spoken of love in a long time. But even if Tom never says those words again, it doesn’t mean that Tom doesn’t feel that way. Even if this is all Harry has—careful touches and half-smiles—he can be content.

* * *

Surprisingly, the task Tom has in mind for them is to bake bread. Tom recites a recipe he once knew, as accurately as he can remember it, and sets about gathering the ingredients. They have plenty of yeast, and there are fresh eggs from just this morning. 

Harry peels and dices apple bits to toss in. They mix in applesauce and honey and oatmeal. They add a dash of cinnamon and inhale the peaceful, fragrant scents that Harry has come to associate with cooking and baking. 

Long gone are the days when Aunt Petunia had forced him to prepare family meals in the spotless, blinding kitchen of Number 4, Privet Drive. Now when Harry thinks of meals, thinks of preparing food with his own hands, he thinks of Tom standing next to him. Tom by his side, sleeves rolled up over the elbows, a curl of hair dangling loosely over scrunched brows. 

Tom does that when he’s faced with something he doesn’t know, something that interests him enough to distract him: his face creases up, his mind deep in thought. Sometimes Tom even runs the tip of his tongue over his front teeth. It’s endearing, and Tom used to—well, he used to do it a lot more often.

Tom used to do that while looking at him.

But right now, with forearms exposed and mind fully engaged in the process of making apple bread—if that’s what this is called, Harry isn’t actually sure—Tom is a vision of perfection. Harry itches to sketch charcoal lines, to capture the angles of Tom’s face and body into smudges and shadows on a page. Everything else gets boring, but Tom never does.

Once their hard work is rising in the oven, Harry starts the process of tidying the kitchen. It’s easier than it used to be. Some days, Harry doesn’t even need to use his wand. 

The bowls and utensils dance their way into the sink, soaping and scrubbing themselves under his direction. Tom watches silently, the weight of his gaze brushing lightly against Harry’s face.

“It smells good,” Harry says cheerfully.

Tom smiles, a soft upward curl of the left side of his mouth. Then he moves closer, closer, stepping around Harry’s immobile form until he reaches the window. Then Tom unlatches the metal lock and shoves it open.

A sudden breeze rushes in. The chill of it is a shock; Harry sucks in a lungful of air, thinking that it might help dispel the stupor that is clouding his mind. The rush of air does feel refreshing, which is nice.

Then a bird lands on the windowsill; a small blue thing with a cute round head and a tiny beak. Harry stares. Tom stares too. 

In all their years together here, they have only ever seen the same wildlife: rabbits and squirrels. Then those had vanished, likely wiped out over time due to the small numbers. Nowadays, the ecosystem of the forest outside hangs by a thread, kept alive by Tom and Harry’s careful applications of magic.

But now there is a bird.

Never has Harry seen a bird so blue, so vibrant, except in photographs and diagrams. It’s been years since he’s laid eyes on any animals other than their chickens and their snake. Looking at this bird, Harry thinks that he’s forgotten too much of the outside world. He’s forgotten the beauty of it that exists outside of his blurry, semi-realistic dreams.

“A bird,” Tom says, reaching out. He seizes the tiny thing, his magic holding the protesting animal in place while his hand closes around its squirming form. 

For a brief second, Harry feels a horrible jolt of fear strike him. But Tom doesn’t hurt the bird. He merely lifts it and holds it up to his face so he can examine it. 

“A mountain bluebird,” Tom adds, factual. “Uncommon for this area.”

Harry empties his fear in a loud exhale. He says nothing. He is listening to the quiet, to the soft thrum of the bluebird in Tom’s grasp. And then he realizes what’s been driving him mad ever since yesterday.

It is the absence of sound, the lack of heavy magic suffusing the air around them. The fresh air is crisp. The world outside is new.

“The wards. The wards must have—” Harry can barely get the words out. He feels dizzy all over again, swaying in place. “The wards are gone,” Harry says.

Tom goes motionless. He tracks Harry’s expression with careful eyes, then releases the bird back out the window. “You’re more sensitive to magic than I am. It must have caused your incident yesterday.”

Harry hadn’t pieced that together yet, but he can agree it makes sense. “You think so?” Then he shakes himself of his confusion. There are more important things to be doing right now, he thinks furiously. Things like—

“We can _leave_ now,” Harry declares. The words ring in his ears; he must have spoken louder than he’d meant to.

“I don’t doubt you’re right. The bread has another hour, though.”

Harry twists to face the window. He has the sudden urge to tip the entire top half of his body out of it. To look, to see, to breathe the clean, fresh air.

“We can leave,” Harry repeats, awed. “We can leave!”

Tom drags his hand along the inside of the windowsill before he turns his back on it. “I’ll go pack.”

Harry’s not sure how to feel. They’ve been here nearly seven years, now. They have no idea what the outside world will look like, but they will go to meet it.

Tom leaves the kitchen. The oven is on, the apple bread baking away inside. Harry squats and peers through the glass; mild waves of heat waft against his face, warming his cheeks.

It occurs to him that he should be doing something useful. But what? Tom’s gone off to pack. Harry bites down on his lower lip. His mind is both sluggish and jittery—two contradictory sensations vying for victory. The wards have come down. They are free to leave.

Soon, Harry hopes, he will see his friends again. He will see his family. He will see Sirius and Lupin. And only seeing them will be enough. It has to be, not only because he’s had years to resign himself to that, but also because—

A solid _thunk_ coming from the ceiling yanks him out of his thoughts. Tom must have dropped something or knocked something over. Harry’s instinct is to go upstairs and see what has happened, to check if Tom’s alright, but his feet are rooted in place. 

Just outside the window, birdsong floats through the air, an eerie addition to the usually peaceful atmosphere of the farm. Harry’s never given much thought to the rhyme and rhythm of chirping. The chickens in the yard squawk and cluck however they like, and Hedwig had always been a refined, elegant companion. At Privet Drive, Harry had certainly never woken to anything as pleasant as bird music.

The song fades eventually. The bird must have flown off. Harry checks the oven again, then stands awkwardly in the kitchen, waiting for Tom to return.

* * *

When Tom does return, he has his trunk with him. A trunk that has not been filled for seven years, not since Harry went back in time to Wool’s orphanage and convinced Tom to run away with him.

“I left the rest for you,” Tom says. He drags his trunk into the dining area and sets it down so that it leans against one of the table legs.

Did Tom pack everything? Does it make sense to take everything? Their entire lives are scattered around this house. All of their things, all of their memories. To pack it all into a trunk… that seems like an impossible task.

“Harry?” Tom is looking at him funny.

Harry nods, works his jaw open to speak. “I’ll go up,” he says, then puts actions to words, dragging his feet out of the kitchen and into the main hall. Past the living room and up the stairs. Step by step, his hand on the railing. He knows where to step to avoid the creaks, but today he lets his feet go where they want. The stairs groan under his weight, protesting. 

At the top of the stairs, Harry pauses. The door to Tom’s bedroom is open, but he walks past it and goes into his own room. Some of his things are laid out on the bed: his broomstick, his father’s cloak.

The cloak is folded in a neat bundle; Harry picks it up and drapes it over his shoulders. It smells faintly of Tom. Some nights, he and Tom sit on the back porch, huddled underneath the warm fabric. There’s no point in being invisible here, but the material of the cloak is durable and warm. Tom says that the hum of magic in it is comforting, in a way. It is a type of magic older than they are, magic that is unique.

Harry is used to the sensation of Tom’s magic surrounding him. Once upon a time it had felt foreign and dangerous; it had been difficult for Harry to dissociate Tom’s magic from Voldemort’s magic. Now, though, Harry feels just fine around Tom and his magic, and it has been this way for years. Tom’s magic no longer raises the hairs on the back of his neck; Tom raising a wand in his direction no longer invokes the primal urge to _run._ All of those fears had passed on in the wake of their friendship. Their relationship.

Tom is very powerful—of course he is, even as a self-taught adult wizard. His magic has grown exponentially over the past few years. If not for Harry’s familiarity with it, the aura of Tom’s power would be stifling, suffocating. Even up here, Harry can feel the subtle shift in the air as Tom cast spells downstairs in the kitchen. 

At the foot of Harry’s bed sits his empty school trunk. Tom must have gotten both of their trunks out of the attic, and that must have been the reason for the loud noise.

Harry pulls his clothes out of his wardrobe and starts to put them into the trunk. He grabs his favourite books, his best paintings. It takes him some time to ensure everything is protected and organized the way he likes. He does it by hand, the way Tom sometimes makes fun of him for. Harry doesn’t mind. The items he cares for are too precious to be handled by magic.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, Harry takes most of his belongings with him, pausing here and there on various items that may or may not prove useful. He should have thought to ask what Tom had packed. They will come back here, Harry knows. Tom has said before that he won’t abandon this place. It means too much to the both of them for that. Still, Harry worries. A silly worry, maybe, but a worry nonetheless.

Once he is done packing, Harry closes his trunk up and hoists it into the air with magic. He can’t help but wonder if this is the last time he’ll see his room for a while. His eyes catch on the details he knows so well; the mural that has yet to chip or lose vibrancy, protected by spells that seal the paint in place, the scattered bits and pieces of art projects he’d started and never finished.

On his desk, there is a half-finished sketch of a new, larger treehouse. He and Tom had planned to expand their old treehouse into a connected series of treehouses suspended above ground. Maybe now they’ll never get to doing that. Harry is saddened by that thought. He resolves to make sure they revisit the idea.

Lastly, Harry goes to the desk and opens the middle drawer. Inside of it, buried under piles of old letters from Ron and Hermione, is an envelope.

His name is written on the front: _Harry J. Potter._ And then, underneath it: _Tom M. Riddle._ The handwriting, of course, is Albus Dumbledore’s. This was what Kingsley had left for him all those years ago.

Harry tucks the letter away and goes downstairs. He opens up the closet by the front door. The top shelf is empty. Harry grabs his usual cloak and folds it up before depositing it into his trunk.

“Tom? Are you still in the kitchen?”

“In here.”

Tom is in the dining room, arms folded over his chest as he stares through the glass door. On the kitchen counter, the bread is cooling. Harry can smell the cinnamon and apples.

On the counter next to the bread, Hyperion is settled in a large coil. He’s gotten too big for Cluckers to carry him comfortably. Most often, Harry finds them piled up together in various spots around the house, snoozing.

“I’ve frozen all the chickens,” Tom says. “I’m not certain how long it’ll last, but I’ve left them a few days’ worth of food and water as well.”

Harry sets his trunk on the ground; it lands with a noisy thump. “You know they’ll eat it all as soon as they wake.”

“One can hope they exercise a modicum of intelligence.” Tom relaxes his arms and turns around. “Is everything in order?”

“I wasn’t sure how much to pack.”

“You won’t need much.” Tom eyes Harry’s trunk. “We won’t be gone too long.”

Harry trusts that Tom knows what’s best. “Are we taking food with us?”

“We’ll buy what we need. No sense in wasting anything here.”

Harry has to mentally smack himself a few times. “Right. I’ll go get that.” What he means is, he’ll fetch the store of Muggle and magical money they’ve kept in the basement alongside the rest of their supplies. Money that has had no worth to either of them for the past seven years. Money that Harry is probably unused to handling now.

When Harry comes back to the kitchen, he finds Tom wearing the cloak that Harry had given him for his first birthday under the wards. It suits Tom now more than ever; Harry can’t help but admire Tom’s handsome silhouette, the way the rich fabric settles on Tom’s shoulders like it belongs there.

Harry enjoys buying presents for people. He pays attention to what people like, when he can. There’s something especially nice about fitting the right gift to the right person. For Tom, who values appearances and social standing, a rich cloak like this one is what he deserves. This cloak represents the way Tom wants people to see him: influential, attractive, and powerful.

“Where’s your cloak?” Tom asks.

Harry blinks. “It’s in my trunk.” Then it occurs to him why Tom is asking this question. “I’ll just… grab a coat, then. It’s not a big deal, it isn’t that cold out.”

It happens all at once. Tom unfastens his cloak and whips it around, draping it over Harry’s shoulders like a shroud. The weight of it is startling—a shiver runs down Harry’s spine. Tom’s hands smooth the fabric, pressing warmth through the cotton of Harry’s shirt and into his skin, heat seeping straight to the bone.

“There,” says Tom. “I’ll wear something else.”

The kindness of Tom’s gesture ignites a landslide of affection in Harry’s chest. It is so sudden and overwhelming that Harry discards his hesitation and leans right in, slowly enough that Tom could shove him away, and kisses Tom’s cheek.

Tom does not push him away. Instead, Tom’s hands hold him in place, fingers curling in. When Harry does retreat, embarrassed at his lack of composure, there is an indescribable emotion in Tom’s eyes. They’ve darkened over the years, those irises. Lighter brown to darker brown; no hints of red to be seen. 

As they stand there, Harry’s face warms. “Um. We should go, now?”

Harry has been good. He hasn’t asked for more, despite what he wants. What he misses, what he aches for. Tom is here with him, even if it is in a different way than before, and that is more than enough—more than he deserves. He’d meant it when he’d said that he didn’t expect Tom to forgive him. It’s hardly fair to either of them if he kicks dirt at the trust they’ve built back up.

If he feels lonely sometimes, that’s not Tom’s fault. It was bound to happen with just the two of them here. Tom can’t be everyone for him. Tom can’t be Ron and Hermione and Sirius. Harry knows that he and Tom are lucky to even have each other, and so he has learned to find solace in solitude. In some ways, his lonely days in the cupboard on Privet Drive had prepared him for life under the wards with Tom. 

“If you like, Harry.” The sound of his name on Tom’s lips is rougher than usual. 

Harry waits for Tom to release him, to put the distance between them again, emotional and physical, but Tom lifts a hand to touch Harry’s forehead. Tom’s fingertip presses down upon the raised skin; he looks contemplative. Harry’s scar serves as a reminder of what connects them. At least, what connects them aside from the ties they’ve woven together on their own.

When Tom’s hand retreats, Harry’s breath unsticks in his throat. He wonders if it’s only Tom who will ever make him feel this way—so exposed, like he could crawl out of his own skin, raw and bleeding, yet still find comfort in Tom’s arms.

“Do you feel any different?”

Harry has an answer ready for this: he feels _fine._ But something about Tom’s tone gives him pause, so he scans Tom’s face for answers. Smooth brow, steady gaze, patient smile. Despite Harry’s years of experience at reading Tom’s microexpressions, Tom remains a flawless actor.

As a result of years spent with Tom, Harry has learned tricks that work beyond his often futile attempts at reading that impassive face—he looks for the reasons behind it. A lack of a reaction can mean just as much as an explosive one. Doubly so for Tom, who hides feelings behind long monologues and dismissive comments. Human nature is complex, but it is not unknowable. As a whole, Tom Riddle is an enigma, but parts of him can be solved. 

So instead of giving his usual answer, Harry asks, “Why are you asking?”

“Your scar,” Tom says, with all the gravitas of a solemn confession, “is no longer a Horcrux.”

Harry’s lips part of their own accord. Questions swim through his head, one after the other. How does Tom know this? How did it happen? _Why_ did it happen? And then, most importantly: what does it mean for the two of them?

For the past few years, there has been little to no reason for Harry to feel fear. Now, somehow, the emotion is very real. Painfully so. Fear digs into his chest with sharp claws, fear snatches the breath out of his lungs. Harry flounders, the air around him no longer a steady 

Tom is still holding him. Tom’s hands are wrapped around his arms, grounding him. Tom is with him.

Harry exhales, lets the burn of distress and anxiety die in his chest. So many mornings have passed since his initial fear of lost love, since the terror of being abandoned seized him by the throat and left him gasping. The horrible wound in his heart had gaped wider with each day the other side of his bed went empty, but over time, it has mended. Months and years have eased his pain into peacefulness, and have warmed Tom’s resentment into a semblance of tolerance, if not acceptance.

There is distance between them, but it is a distance that Harry can reach across, and for that he is thankful.

“I think that,” Harry croaks out, “deserved a little more warning.”

Tom cracks a grin that melts Harry’s heart down to the core. He gives Harry’s bicep a squeeze. “But that would ruin all the fun.”

Fun. As if any of this is fun. Harry is eager, certainly, to at last step out into the world beyond their tiny bubble. But as he takes a moment to consider this new information—no Horcrux, no soul piece—he realizes the import of what Tom has told him.

The world outside has moved on without them. There is no Voldemort in the world beyond, no blood sacrifice from Lily Potter to leave her son an orphan and a war hero. There is nothing that tethers them to this world. They are free from the past, free from the future.

Suddenly, Harry doesn’t want to leave. The idea of what he may await them is daunting, unbearable. Lives have been saved, and people are doubtlessly happier in a world free of Voldemort, but it is not… his world. It is not the world where Harry Potter was raised by the Dursleys. It is not the world where his best friends are Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. 

Dumbledore’s letter sits in his pocket with the weight of a thousand stones. Harry wants to burn it without reading it. What do those words matter, now? What could Dumbledore possibly have to say to either of them? Nothing that matters, surely. Nothing that changes the way Harry feels, or the awful way he aches when he looks back on his mistakes.

Mistakes that no longer exist. His past is gone, eradicated as efficiently as Voldemort has been. Harry no longer worries about survival, about living to see another year at Hogwarts. He is not the Boy-Who Lived anymore, and he never will be. He is not a Horcrux. He is just Harry Potter.

Tom’s hand squeezes again, softly this time. His eyes are wide and full of attentive concern. “Harry?”

Harry gets lost in his own head rather easily. Tom does the same, though he’s admittedly better at doing it when they’re not in the middle of a conversation. Harry gives his head a shake and breathes out slowly. He lets his lungs expand in his chest, relaxing his body. “I’m not a Horcrux anymore.”

Tom’s lips press together as he nods. Does this change anything? Should it change anything? Tom had once said that they weren’t friends because they both had magic. Harry doesn’t think that his existence as a Horcrux is responsible for their feelings for each other but—but he _wonders._

So Harry stares, willing Tom’s indecipherable gaze to unlock itself, to explain, to provide the truths that he now desperately needs. He needs to be certain that Tom’s care for him extends beyond the wards and into the world that awaits them. He needs to know he is not alone.

Tom stares back, his eyes like dark pools of liquor, swirling, swirling. There is affection there, Harry knows. But affection is not enough. Time has proven that truth to the both of them.

Then Tom leans forward. His lips touch upon Harry’s forehead, the gesture a mark in its own right, a devout brand that scalds.

“We will face this together, Harry.” 

The words are familiar; it takes a moment to place them. Then Harry remembers another conversation, years ago, when Tom had uttered those words the night before they had faced Dumbledore in the field.

That is just a memory, now. There is no more Dumbledore in their lives. There is no more prophecy, no more Voldemort. Harry’s life had always been shaped by Voldemort. The prophecy had buried him underneath labels and expectations. Tom is the only person who had known him as _Harry_ first rather than as the Boy-Who-Lived. 

Tom may carry the consequences of his future self for years and years to come, but because of Tom’s decision to go to the future, the original path that led to Voldemort has vanished entirely.

Harry startles as Tom’s hand slips down his arm, down and down until their palms meet and their fingers lace together. Strength courses through his veins, a rush that hardens his resolve. Years after his Hogwarts graduation would have been, he remains a Gryffindor. He will face his fears, he will conquer them proudly.

“I know we will.” They are together. Tom will not abandon him.

They shrink their trunks down to pocket size. Tom walks the two of them to the front door. Hyperion is waiting there, his tail draped over Cluckers’ back like a scaly scarf. Harry bends over to stroke the bird’s skinny neck, patting the downy feathers. Then he scoops her into his free arm, ignoring Hyperion’s hissed complaints.

A funny pair he and Tom will make, walking into the future with a snake and a chicken by their sides.

The air outside is brisk. Tom casts a few spells on the doors and windows, but there isn’t much reason for them to worry about someone breaking in. The house already has protective spells on it.

Harry stifles a yawn as he looks around. The sky is brighter than he remembers, unfiltered by the wards. It is filled with long, scraggly clouds that cover up the sun. Harry wraps his arm more securely around Cluckers, wondering if they ought to put her in a harness or a sling of some kind. 

How long until they reach the closest town? It’s been so long since he’d walked this way. The knowledge is distant, tucked away like an old childhood toy in the farthest crevice of his mind. 

Tom tugs at their joined hands, pulling Harry towards the long dirt path. The ground beneath their feet is rocky and unfamiliar. Everything is bright and new. Seconds pass in peaceful silence, and even their familiars are unusually hushed.

Then Tom says, voice firm and hand steady, _“Tempus.”_

Harry turns to see the spell burst forth from Tom’s wand.

It is May 2nd, 2002.

The meaning of the date sinks in. Given their indefinite time under the wards, Harry has forgotten the significance of years, has discarded the meaning of time. Everything in his life is in relation to Tom: how many years since they met, how many years they have been— _had_ been under the wards. 

Harry remembers ringing in the new millennium, remembers the burst of colourful sparks from his wand and the delighted laughter that had followed. Just him and Tom greeting the sunrise from the rooftop.

Tom’s wand vanishes into his pocket. His free hand remains tangled up with Harry’s, their palms brushing together. In the eyes of the outside world, no doubt they are a bit old for holding hands, but they have some time yet before they rejoin that world. They have time. 

For now, they can be themselves, away from the pressures of society. Away from those people who had given Harry to the Dursleys and left Tom in an orphanage. Because Tom has always been great, has always been worthy of a good life and a good home. Harry has tried to give Tom those things, and if he’s succeeded even a little, then this has surely all been worth it.

Harry can’t help but wonder what Tom thinks. Despite the plans they’ve made together for the future—a bare-bones scheme to reach the nearest town and ascertain how different this future is from the one Harry had known—they’ve never talked about their feelings on leaving the wards. Harry had mourned his losses in private and reached the conclusion that if he was to emerge in a world where no one remembered him, he could accept it.

By aligning himself with Tom, he has left the past behind. Harry has separated himself from that life. He has laid to rest those memories pressed into images on the wall, painted stroke by stroke. They are faces and names and characteristics that now exist only in his heart. Harry misses his friends often, thinks of them with fondness, but it is with a softer longing than before.

“How much further, do you think?”

Harry glances up. Tom’s eyes are warm; they reflect the sunlight. 

“I don’t know,” Harry answers honestly. “I’m not sure.”

Tom hums in response, a patient, mindful sound. His fingers wrap tightly around Harry’s. Tom’s palms are worn rough with calluses from climbing trees and repairing the chicken coop, from stirring cauldrons in the basement and from teaching Harry how to tie rope knots that would hold their weight.

Their joined hands swing back and forth while they walk. The two of them rely on each other. Harry’s life may revolve around Tom, but the reverse also holds true. Tom needs him, too.

“I wonder how much of the world has changed for you,” Tom comments. When Harry doesn’t respond, he elaborates, “It’s been seven years.”

Seven years that have changed the world. The monumental impact of what they’ve done slams into Harry with a damning lucidity—he and Tom have delivered this current timeline into existence. In choosing each other, they have chosen a new world for tens of thousands of people.

“I’m sure a lot has changed,” Harry says. “We’ll figure it out.” 

All other constants in Harry's life have faded with the unyielding passage of time, but one remains eternal.

Tom Riddle is his past, present, and future. Tom is the man who had haunted Harry's nightmares for years, is the boy who Harry has loved as a friend and partner. The spark of ambition inside of Tom lives on, and it is capable of both extraordinary and dreadful things, but to obliterate that spark would alter the core of who Tom is. That spark makes Tom who he is, and to extinguish it is something Harry could never do.

“We will,” Tom replies, in a steady tone that fills Harry with certainty. Harry has lost many things over the course of his life. Even now, his past only exists in the form of distant memories. But the relationship he and Tom once had has not been wholly eradicated, and this is what gives him the courage to move forward.

Tom’s hand rests in his, the calluses on his palm rough and real. This is the most important thing in the world: Tom’s hand in his. Harry remembers the first time their hands touched, on the day they’d met, how he’d stuffed the handkerchief Portkey into Tom’s unwilling grasp. They have come a long way since then. 

Eventually, all the clouds drift off, leaving the sky empty and blue. Harry breathes in the clean air of the countryside, feels the weight of the past at last slide off his shoulders. 

He and Tom step down the road, sunlight warm on their faces. They are no longer enemies and they are no longer lovers, but they are not simply friends, either. The world around them is new and uncertain, but there is safety to be found in the way Tom’s hand settles in his, like it has always been there, like it will always be there. There is solace to be found in the line of Tom’s posture, straight and proud, a silhouette Harry knows by touch.

Light touches everything, eventually. It exposes all; it brings out the good in the world as much as it does the ugly.

Now that the sun is above them, unfiltered rays glancing off the shimmering fabric of Tom’s cloak wrapped around his shoulders, Harry thinks that he has never seen the world look so bright.

**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been just shy of a year since i started this story. it has, the way stories and characters often do, grown a life of its own. there have been a lot of topics explored in regards to harry and tom's relationship, and that has been both frustrating and rewarding to write.
> 
> i had a lot of thoughts following the previous chapter that i wanted to include in this final author's note, but now that i have finally sat down to write it, i feel that it's more valuable to leave some parts of the story vague. 
> 
> so here i will give you some food for thought rather than me rambling on for paragraphs and paragraphs about the characterizations and motivations.
> 
> a thread of this story has been tom discovering himself outside of the environment he was canonically raised in; who is he outside of that context, as a person, at his core. removed from all those things, is he still voldemort?
> 
> in considering voldemort, we must consider tom. voldemort is a culmination of tom's choices, but voldemort is also a product of the environment around him. recall dumbledore's words in chapter 5, taken from canon: it matters not what someone is born, but who they grow to be.
> 
> it is only under the safety of the wards, with harry, that tom is allowed to separate himself from that environment. harry views him how he has tried to be seen for his whole life, as someone smart and powerful. someone who is a good person, someone worth saving.
> 
> in accepting harry, tom also accepts that potential for himself—the potential to be someone good.
> 
> with that statement, i think, i have hit the end of this story. 
> 
> thank you for reading, thank you for letting tom and harry occupy space in your mind, even for a brief period of time. i am wishing you all the very best for a brighter, happier 2021. someday, i hope, we will step freely in the daylight again.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are appreciated! :)
> 
> find my writing updates and sneak peeks on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com) !
> 
>   
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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